


Canon In D Major

by iknowhowyoukiss



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CS AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:59:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7009894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iknowhowyoukiss/pseuds/iknowhowyoukiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Hey we hooked up last night and it turns out you are my child’s teacher’ AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Granny says to drink this,” Henry tells her, smirking as he places the cup next to her elbow. “And she said to plug your nose when you do.”

Emma groans, achy and sore and feeling sick as a dog. She manages to lift her head from the circle of her arms on the diner table to scowl at him. There's little she can do about the former, having already taken some Advil to ease her discomfort, but damned if she’ll consume even a sip of that hangover treatment concoction Granny whips up. If it looks like tar and it smells like tar, well _pfft_ , she’d rather take her chances with her misery.

His grin widens, hazel eyes alight with amusement as he affectionately pats her on the head. “Do me a favor, though, can you sip slowly? I made a bet with her for a plate of fries that you wouldn’t puke it back up.”

She wants to tell him it’s too early for fries, and betting for that matter, but all she’s got for him is an answering whimper, laying her cheek back against her arm and closing her eyes. “Do _me_ a favor, kid, slide my sunglasses back down and finish your breakfast.”

Henry obliges with a chuckle, gently moving her shades over her eyes from where she’d tucked them atop her head earlier. It has the desired effect, dimming the godforsaken brightness of the diner lights that were permeating through her closed eyelids and causing her headache to worsen.

“So I take it you had a fun GNO?” he asks when she’s finished sighing in gratitude.

“A what?” she mutters, the words sound grumbly and garbled to her ears.

“A ‘ _girl’s night out_.’ GNO. Isn’t that what Aunt Ruby calls it?”

Ah, yes. Ruby and her acronyms, that explains it. Once the confusion clears up, there are memories that flash through her mind of aforementioned ‘ _GNO_ ,’ completely inappropriate memories to share with a 12 year-old, especially when he’s her son. Besides, she hardly thinks that that would be a suitable term to call the night she had anyway — particularly since she hadn’t ended the evening with the girls ( _oops_ ) — but instead of enlightening Henry with any of those minor details, she makes some noise of agreement in her throat and steers the conversation into safer territory.

“Did you have fun at your sleep over?” she wonders.

He perks up immediately, shoveling forkfuls of pancake into his mouth as he launches straight into the highlights of the night, recalling how he and his friends had finished their astronomy project for Mr. Jones’ science class a few days early then proceeded to binge on pizza and play video games until midnight. He says they’d made bowls and bowls of popcorn, marathoning scary movies until they’d fallen asleep and Emma scrunches her nose in disapproval.

She would sigh exasperatedly for two reasons if she had the energy in her to do so. The first being for marathoning scary movies because she just _knows_ he’s going to end up crawling into her bed tonight when he can’t sleep and then proceed to steal all of the covers.

And the second being for bringing up Mr. Jones _again._ He’s Henry’s new favorite teacher -- recently moved to small-town Maine -- whom her son won’t shut up about and whom he spends every available opportunity dropping not-so-subtle hints that Mr. Jones is _exactly_ her type. She knows her kid means well, really, she does, but she doesn’t need him ‘helping’ with her love life. It’s fine just the way it is, in all of its non-existent glory, thank you very much.

“Hey, Mom,” Henry starts, sipping noisily at his hot chocolate and effortlessly easing onto a new topic, which she’s more than happy to do if it keeps him from meddling where she doesn’t want him to meddle. “ _So_ …remember how you said it would be beneficial for my growth as a human to engage in an extra curricular activity after school?”

She does remember.

She also remembers that he’d whined and rolled his eyes at her and dug his heels in over every suggestion she’d given him. Her brow arches up suspiciously, at least, she hopes it does, and she’s already dreading hearing about the activity her son has suddenly -- not to mention chosen completely out of the blue -- for the betterment of his person.

“ _CanItakeguitarlessons?_ ” Henry abruptly spits out in a rush of words that blend together.

Emma jolts upright, a strange itch between her shoulder blades that promptly disappears at the sharp pain that zings through her head and is brought on by the quick movement of sitting up. She winces and fights against the wave of nausea in her stomach, her hand pressing firmly over her mouth. She eyes Granny’s drink one more time and deeply considers it for a solid three seconds, but changes her mind when she remembers how it smells.

“Guitar lessons?” she repeats, eyeing him warily once her stomach has settled again. “Henry, that kind of activity is a commitment. You can’t just expect-”

“I _know_ , Mom. I know.” Her son nods his head enthusiastically, eyes doe-eyed and pleading in a look that he’s had perfected since the age of two. It almost always guarantees he gets his way. Almost. 

“Henry-”

“Okay, look. It’s twice a week, an hour long session on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That gives me tons of time to do all my homework and studying, plus chores, and still have time to practice in between lessons…and Mr. Jones, well…he’s a guitarist. He’s in a band and he happens to teach-”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. _Mr. Jones_?” She narrows her eyes at him. It’s all so clear to her now. “Henry, _I swear to God._ If this is some sort of ploy to try to set me up with your science teacher-”

“ _Mom_ ,” he gasps, feigning offense, his hand on his chest as if absolutely appalled by her accusation. “ _I would never!_ ”

If he thinks he’s fooling her for one second, he’s in for a rude awakening.

The door to the diner opens then, the chiming of the bell attached just above it interrupting them and going straight to her far too fragile head. She groans again, covering her ears with her hands and feeling like she may just combust from the ringing echoing around where her brain was once functioning.

“ _Mr. Jones_!” Henry calls out suddenly, and Emma swears internally at her stinking good fortune.

Of course _he_ would walk through the door at that precise moment, the new science teacher, the one her kid was currently trying to convince her to let him take guitar lessons from, the one he was trying to play matchmaker for, _with her_ , and _of course_  she has to be at her very worst, poorly recovering from a GNO...that led to a ONS (‘ _one night stand_ ,’ hey, she’s hip with _some_ lingo) — an _amazing_ one night stand, but that’s beside the point — with a hangover from hell.

Emma doesn’t know whether she wants to crawl under the table to escape Henry, who, by some dumb stroke of luck, is actually getting the chance to play Cupid right now, or if it’s just to get away from her copious amounts of embarrassment presently burning her cheeks and tinging them pink at being seen by her son’s teacher in this state.

Both. It’s definitely both.

Well, at least she knows how to make a first impression.

There’s a clicking of boots, something familiar in his gait as he approaches their table, but she can’t quite place it, and then there’s a shadow looming over her. She squints as she angles her head and forces herself to look up at him. All she gets is his profile because he’s looking at Henry, but it slams into her like a freight train anyway, promptly knocking her world off its axis and the air from her lungs in one fell swoop.

She’d know that profile anywhere. She spent enough time looking at it -- and the rest of him -- the night before at The Rabbit Hole.

Emma has a very genuine fear that she’s going to be sick for real this time; it all comes to her in a rush of memories and overwhelming emotions. The handsome guitarist of that band they’ve been coming to watch every Friday night for the last three weeks. His hand warm in hers when he’d sauntered over after their set to say hello and introduce himself. Ruby and Mary Margaret’s encouraging looks followed by their quick and discreet exits. Too many shots of rum. Far too many.

A seaside apartment. Eager hands. Hungry lips. Drunk on kisses that seemed to go on forever. Rough, calloused fingers, a clever tongue, the scrape of scruff harsh against the delicate skin of her inner thighs. Too-blue eyes and that infuriating dimpled smile as he’d held her gaze and _watched_ her fall apart beneath his mouth. _Twice._

Oh God. _Oh God_.

 _Killian Jones —_ she remembers now that he _had_ introduced himself with his full name — musician, Sex God, _middle school science teacher_.

“Henry, good morning, lad,” he smiles. “Fancy meeting you here.”

 _Oh_ , she remembers that accent too. Gruff and lilting in her ear as he’d bent her over his couch, chest pressed against her back, chin tucked over her shoulder, then gripped her hips and filled her roughly from behind -- “ _More? Do you want more, love_?”

_Fuck._

Who the hell did she piss off in another lifetime to deserve this. There is absolutely no coming back from this. None. Zip. Zilch.

“Small town,” Henry shrugs, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “It was bound to happen eventually. Ah, Mr. Jones, this is my mom! Mom, Mr. Jones.”

He scratches behind his ear (an adorable nervous tick she’d become familiar with last night) and chuckles lightly. “It’s the weekend, Henry, I wouldn’t be opposed if you’d just call me Killian. ‘ _Mr. Jones_ ’ sounds so-”

His thought cuts off as he turns to glance at her, meets her eyes as she stares at him over the rim of her glasses. She reaches up to slowly pull them off, setting them on the table and blinking under the fluorescent lights. _Ugh_. It’s so unfair that he look like _that,_ that he be incredibly composed and well-spoken and put-together (practically _glowing_ , honestly) and so  _chipper_ , while she sits here, barely able to hold her head up and looking and feeling like absolute shit _._

Killian’s eyes widen comically on hers and if she wasn’t feeling so awful, she’d double over with laughter.

“ _Emma_ ,” he breathes.

She watches an array of emotions flicker across his face — surprise, relief, something else entirely that she’s not sure she’s ready to deal with beyond the safety of night and without the courage of booze — and a lump abruptly lodges in her throat. She can’t keep the images from forming in her brain in rapid succession-

Her legs anchored around his hips, feet locked at the small of his back. His teeth latched around one of her nipples, tugging roughly enough to make her cry out before soothing away the ache with the flat of his tongue. Her back arching off the bed when she came, a wordless cry stealing her breath as tiny dots danced behind her closed eyelids. Their fingers intertwining and his hand pressing hers into the mattress, her name a broken whisper against her lips while he’d continued to fuck her through it, slowing his pace and easing her down ever so gently only to bring her back up one more time.

“ _Again_ ,” he’d demanded, insatiable and relentless, his hips grinding into hers. Stroke after delicious stroke, the thick drag of his cock filling her up and pulling her higher and higher. The fingers of his free hand had slipped between them to rub tight little circles over her clit until the pleasure was too much to bear, bursting outwards from her core in a flash of all-consuming white heat, sending her into the stars and him tumbling after her.

She exhales heavily, a _whoosh_ of air that expels between her parted lips, and she doesn’t feel anything close to steady because there’s more where that came from, simmering just beneath the surface. Her heart beats a furious rhythm in her chest while she keeps staring at him, pounding harshly against her ribcage when she can see her exact thoughts mirrored in his unwavering gaze.

“Wait a second,” Henry speaks up, eyeing the two of them carefully. “ _You two_ _know each other already_?”

Rather intimately, she’s afraid, her stomach twisting itself into anxious knots. But Henry doesn’t need to know that.

Nor does he need to know how he’d had her twice more over the course of the night. Once on his kitchen table when he’d woken up and found her dressed in his shirt as she’d perused the contents of his fridge. He’d simply tugged the offending material up and off until he could bare her body for his greedy hands, then laid her out like a feast, spreading her legs wide and slipping inside her without preamble. The last time had been in the hallway outside of his room after they’d hydrated and shared a carton of ice cream between them. They’d tripped in their haste to get back to his bed, going down in a tangle of limbs and giggles. It was a mild inconvenience, the detour to the floor, but it was nothing that couldn’t be remedied with her simply rolling him onto his back, straddling his hips, and riding him into oblivion with her head thrown back while both of his hands gripped her hips to help her keep pace.

And Henry definitely doesn’t need to know about how she _walk of shame_ ’d it into their home this morning, her hair a wild tangle of curls -- courtesy of _Mr. fucking Jones_ himself -- make-up smudged around her eyes, wearing nothing but a stolen flannel shirt and a pair of well-loved sweat pants with her stilettos in her hand and her dress and undergarments (in complete tatters) in her purse.

“Something like that,” Killian supplies, unable to take his eyes off of her.

Emma has to swallow around the lump still stuck in her throat when warmth blooms back into her cheeks.

“Oh,” Henry answers, then waits for a beat. “Well, that’s great!”

He’s positively ecstatic about this latest development. Emma can’t say she shares the sentiment.

“Let me just grab you a menu, _Killian_ ,” her son snickers. “You can have breakfast with us and tell my mom why she should let me take guitar lessons with you and then explain all the benefits that come with learning to play an instrument.”

(She’s had those hands on her, _everywhere_. She knows _exactly_ what the benefits of playing an instrument are. Hell, she’s got the fingerprint bruises on her hips to prove it.)

Her menace of a son has the audacity to wink at her as he leaves and she swears if she makes it out of this breakfast alive, she’s going to ground him to infinity and beyond.

The silence is tense, stretching on for what feels like hours before Killian eventually sighs and slides in beside her in the booth. She is forced to scoot over to make more room for him, but strangely, she doesn’t feel trapped. He moves to speak, mouth opening as he gestures at her with his hand, but the words don’t come. He tries again only to fail once more, and it’s his abrupt chuckling as he scrubs his hands over his face that draws her from her brooding thoughts.

“Well aren’t you particularly _cheery_ this morning,” she snaps, refusing to look at him while she crosses her arms over her chest.

He taps at the untouched glass of thick, tarry-looking substance. “Granny’s hangover special. It works wonders.”

She grimaces, gaze flickering back and forth between him and the drink. “Really?” she asks incredulously.

“Aye,” he says, meeting her eyes again. 

His are searching, vibrant and clear, _open_. (Intimidating, overwhelming, dangerous.) 

The hair falling over his brow gives a charming, boyish quality to him, and _oh yeah_ , he’s definitely handsome. Perhaps more so in the light of the day (she didn’t stick around long enough to find out, sneaking out of his place like a thief under the cover of twilight), and he-

“You stole my shirt,” he murmurs after a moment, interrupting her thought. “And my favorite pair of sweats.”

“ _Borrowed_ ,” she corrects, promptly scowling at him.

“Is that right?” He angles to face her, fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm on the table while he cants his head at her. “And when exactly were you intending to return them?”

She opens her mouth to reply then abruptly closes it when no words come out. Well shit. He’s got her there, especially since she never intended to see him again, and the bastard _knows_ it.  

“ _Stole_ ,” he repeats with a shrug of his shoulders and an obnoxious scrunch of his nose. “I could report you to the town Sheriff, you know.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “I _am_ the town Sheriff.”

“Even better,” Killian says. “I formally withdraw all charges of thievery-”

She gives an unladylike snort at that. “Oh, _really_?”

“Aye, it’ll save you the trouble of writing up a report.” (God, she really hates those dimples in his cheeks and how his eyes crinkle when he smiles.) “On the condition that you have dinner with me, of course.”

 _Of course_. “What, like a _date_?”

“Precisely.”

“I am _not_ having dinner with you.”

“Why not? You’ve had everything else with me.” He smirks, lips curling up as he presses his tongue into his cheek. “Four times, if I’m not mistaken.”

She flushes at that, heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks, staining the tips of her ears. “I’m not dating you, _Killian_ ,” she hisses. “Last night- that was- it wasn’t…that was just a one time thing, okay?”

He contemplates her for long time, long enough that she begins to squirm uncomfortably in her seat beneath his too-perceptive gaze. He merely shrugs at her, seemingly unfazed.

“That’s unfortunate, I do make a delightful breakfast…but I suppose now you’ll never know.”

She laughs, she can’t help herself, the knot in her stomach finally unraveling as she reaches up to flick him on the forehead. It’s easy to settle in beside him, to feel far more relaxed than she had moments ago. She tries not to think too much about that, or the reason behind it.

“I’m sure I’ll survive. Now why don’t you convince me why I should let my son take guitar lessons from you.”

(He’s far more convincing than she anticipated. Henry purchases a guitar later that evening and begins seeing Killian twice a week that Tuesday. He’s good with her boy and perhaps even worse is that he’s good with _her_.

Much to her chagrin and never-ending annoyance, she finds him as smart, funny, and charming in the daytime as she had in the night.

Damn it. 

What’s worse, is that he’s a man of his word. He does in fact make a rather delightful breakfast, for dinner that is, wooing her with waffles and scrambled eggs and thick slices of bacon over candlelight and soft music. He swoops in and kisses her over round two of waffles and syrup before she can argue about date semantics. Sneaky bastard.)

_Fin_


	2. Chapter 2

It would take hardly anything at all for Emma to give in to her baser instincts, curling up beside Killian after a blissful night of sex, sinking into the warmth of his arms and his California King and soft sheets, feeling the press of his lips against her shoulder or her hair as he cuddles in behind her.

So she doesn’t.

Even if the prospect of waking up to a fresh pot of coffee and a home-cooked breakfast is rather enticing. Not to mention his cheeky smile from across the table or his bright blue eyes peering at her from over the rim of his mug. She suspects that there would even be stolen kisses over omelets (stolen kisses in general, if she knows him at all) and it doesn’t really sound that bad. In fact, it sounds particularly delightful.

Or it would, if she were anyone but Emma -- Emma with walls miles high and armor for days, endlessly waiting for the other shoe to drop when even one thing goes right. Running. Always running.

But she _is_ Emma, and she’s all of that emotional baggage and then some. So she never stays, and he never asks her to.

Their evenings tend to end with her sneaking out in the dead of night once they’ve had their fill of each other. Well, _he_ says sneaking, but she is inclined to disagree, especially when she’s still kissing him as she’s trying to get her pants on, laughing into his mouth while he diligently attempts to thwart her plans and get them back _off_.

Some would say that maybe it’s a little shameful how she gets home -- the late hour, her hair tangled from his fingers, pillow creases on her cheek, and her outfit always a little _too_ wrinkled -- but it’s better than the alternative. Even if Ruby’s exasperated look and displeased frown as she sees herself out haunts Emma all the way upstairs while she tiptoes by Henry’s room, their parting conversation echoing in her head.

_“I don't know why you don't just stay at Killian’s-”_

_“It’s just sex, I don't need to spend-”_

_“You’re an idiot, Emma Swan.”_

It’s a tired argument, and it’s so stupid, but it always makes her feel guilty for some reason. Logically, she knows she shouldn’t. She and Killian are adults. They can enjoy each other’s company (not to mention _each other_ ) and have some casual affection without all the complications that come with strings and labels and seeing each other beyond the privacy of his place.

And her staying over.

She has absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. (Besides, she figures locking herself in her room and spending the rest of the morning staring at her ceiling instead of sleeping is punishment enough for the look that always comes into his eyes when she tells him it’s time for her to leave. It never lingers in the depthless blue, just a shadow that comes as quickly as it goes, often replaced by his soft smile and the brush of his fingers over her hand before he grasps it to kiss at her knuckles.)

On the rare occasions that she _does_ loiter beyond her normal ‘ _hit it then quit it_ ’ (as Ruby so aptly puts it), accidentally dozing off against the better judgment of her sex-addled brain and deliciously exhausted body, she somehow always manages to wake right before dawn and slip out of his arms -- and place -- while it’s still dark out. It’s as if her internal alarm clock simply just _knows_ the sun’s on the rise and she’s coming up on the point of no return, blaring at her to wake up and get the hell out of dodge before it’s too late.

Sometimes, if she’s lucky, he’s still asleep when she leaves and she finds it’s generally easier on her conscience -- not to mention the ache in her chest -- on those mornings since she doesn’t have to look at him. Or see how carefully neutral his face gets while he watches her shrug into her shirt and tug her jeans over her hips. If she’s lucky, she can just walk out and go, closing the door quietly behind her. (If the scent of him happens to cling to her skin, well, she just tries to ignore it. Along with the hollow feeling she has in the pit of her stomach when she pulls her bug out of the parking space beside his because on _those_ nights, she’s definitely sneaking out.)

When fortune doesn’t see it fit to grant her favor, and he happens to wake when she does, she has to suffer through his soft, understanding smile and endlessly patient eyes as she snatches her clothes off his floor and hastens to leave, an unsettled feeling eating away at her as he helps her into her jacket. He insists on walking her to her car, opening the driver’s door like the gentleman he always claims to be, and giving her one hell of a send off before he goes back inside -- his arms tight around her, fingertips twisted in her hair as he cradles the back of her head in his palm, the caress of his mouth rough and demanding and sinful against her lips.

He steals her breath, every single bit of coherency from her brain, leaves her weak-kneed and unsteady on her feet. Though she suspects that’s kind of the point, if his subtly smug expression as he buckles her in while she sits in the driver’s seat a little dazed is anything to go by.

This unspoken arrangement goes on for a long while, the ‘sleeping-together-kinda-dating-but-only-in-private’ thing. That is, if you count takeout in bed after a vigorous round of sex _dating_. That part is easy, though. The sex, the passion, the _want_. They’ve got that covered in spades, have good... _chemistry_ , as he likes to say with a ridiculous -- albeit enthusiastic -- wiggle of his eyebrows, being a science teacher and all.

It’s the intimacy that’s a bit harder, the vulnerability that poses the biggest problem. She can let him into her bed (well, _his_ technically), but the rest of it? Having him over and seeing him -- _dating_ him -- in public and letting him in? That’s a whole other can of worms, one she doesn’t intend on opening in the next millennium if she can help it. They’ve got a good thing going right now, and she has no intention of messing it up.

\-----

Winter melts inevitably into Spring, and while it’s a slow process, the snow begins vanishing from the sidewalks, leaving behind puddles but a more manageable dampness in its wake. Rain comes less frequently too, the chill that desperately tries to cling to the air giving way to clear, blue skies and sunbeams that warm a person from the inside out.

Guitar lesson days remain some of Emma’s favorite days of the week (right behind the weekend), especially now that she doesn’t have to trudge through mounds of snow just to get from her car to the front doors of the school, and particularly because she gets to see Killian as _Mr. Jones, Science Teacher_ when she picks Henry up. There’s something about his button up shirts tucked into his slacks and rolled up to his elbows that simply appeals to her feminine sensibilities. Sometimes, to her endless delight, he keeps the sleeves down and pairs the shirts with cardigans. And sometimes, bless him, he wears them with sweater vests...and _jeans_.

It’s the latter this particular afternoon -- dark jeans over his boots and a gray and white pinstripe dress shirt beneath a simple black and gray argyle sweater vest. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, and it’s such a casual little detail, but Emma can see the hair on his chest just barely peeking through the top of his neckline, and how his rolled up sleeves showcase the bleeding heart tattoo etched into his forearm.

He sits in front of Henry, leaning forward slightly from his place on the edge of his desk in order to adjust her kid’s fingers on the strings of the instrument, and there’s nothing casual about the appreciative little sigh that expels between her lips as she peers at him through the small glass window on the door.

His hair has grown just a tad too long in recent weeks -- falling over his brow, curling by his ear -- and _god_ , he looks so good like this. A little unkempt. A little more rockstar than science teacher. A little more dangerous. She just wants to card her fingers through the thick silken strands, scratching at his scalp until she can pull that low groan from the back of his throat.

She loves that sound.

He glances up at her just then, sensing her or reading her thoughts, she’s not sure, but a flush creeps up into her cheeks anyway at being caught having impure thoughts over the resident brainiac. The way his face lights up, though, the way the smile blooms on his lips sets her stomach aflutter. Makes the breath back up into her lungs. She smiles in turn, waving when Henry peeks over at her too.

Killian beckons her inside and she hesitates for only a second, stepping into the room and greeting the both of them. The kiss she drops to the top of Henry’s head when she’s near earns her a whine, and the grin she gives him results in a roll of his eyes. There’s no exasperated _Mom_ that comes from him, but she hears it all the same. He excuses himself to retrieve his things from his locker, leaving her alone with Killian.

_Very_ alone.

“You got one of those for me?” Killian wonders, eyes dancing with mirth at the way she swallows so thickly when she realizes there’s no longer a buffer between them. His brow quirks up and he pokes his tongue into his cheek, never one to miss an opportunity to flirt with her.

It’s probably -- _most definitely_ \-- a bad idea, but she shuffles over to where he sits on the edge of his work station, legs stretched out with his feet crossed at the ankles and his arms crossed over his chest. She holds her cup of hot chocolate up. “One of these? Afraid not. This one’s just for me.”

He shifts when she’s within arm’s length, uncrossing his ankles and reaching out to hook his index fingers into the belt loops of her jeans that reside at her hips. He gently draws her in until she stands between his legs. “I meant a kiss, darling,” he clarifies, eyebrows wiggling encouragingly.

She doesn’t put up as much of a fight as she should, allowing him to tug her forward far enough so that the only place for her arms go is around his neck, and the only place for her body to rest is pressed up against his. “Henry,” she starts, her voice soft with warning even as their noses bump and his breath fans enticingly over her lips.

“Knows we’re seeing each other-”

She pulls back at that, brow quirking up in amusement. “Is that what we’re doing?”

He leans forward again, tilts his chin up slightly to chase after her mouth. “Isn’t it?”

The question makes her nerves jump, her shoulders tense just a bit, but instead of replying, she takes a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure they’re still alone. “His locker _is_ all the way on the other end of the school and-”

There’s no chance to finish the thought when Killian swoops in to steal a kiss the second she turns her head back to face him. She melts instantly, mouth opening at the first gentle swipe of his tongue across her bottom lip, sighing when, without preamble, he angles his head to deepen the kiss. They don’t have much time, and he always has been one for capitalizing on the quiet moments, bless him.

“You taste like chocolate,” he murmurs, smile brushing over her mouth when he speaks. “And spice.”

He doesn’t move away, and neither does she. She just grins back, free hand moving to cup his face so she can thumb at the corner of his lips and trace over the dimple winking in his cheek. Her hand moves lower, fingers trailing along the neckline of his vest before moving lower to follow the sharp lines of the diamond patterns on it.

“Is this new?”

“Fond of the sweater vests, are you?”

There’s a secret smile on her lips as she eases away, intent on putting some distance between them before Henry gets back, but he merely tugs her forward and kisses her again, smile triumphant when she makes that pleased little sigh in the back of her throat. He gives her a parting peck, leaning in again a final time for a playful little nip at her bottom lip before he finally releases her.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he winks, all charm and bravado despite sounding as breathless as she feels.

Emma hides her smile behind a sip of hot chocolate and makes a show of rolling her eyes. She bites her tongue on the witty reply she has when Henry comes barreling through the door.

“Hey Mom, can Killian come over for dinner?”

She promptly chokes on her hot chocolate.

Enough that Killian snags a Kleenex off his desk and comes over to hand it to her, patting her on the back while she attempts to control her coughing fit. She wheezes, tears burning behind her eyes. It doesn’t help that her heart is caught in her throat, making it more difficult to breathe.

Killian’s never been over to her house for _sex_ , let alone for _dinner_.

She glances up at him, knows that her eyes are wide in that ‘deer-caught-in-headlights’ kind of way and she can actually feel her flight response mode activating -- adrenaline coursing through her system, making her blood pound in her veins and shortening her already ragged breath.

“Henry-”

“You know, lad, unfortunately I’ve got a lot of...papers to grade tonight,” Killian jumps in, interrupting her and politely declining her son’s abrupt invitation before she can put her two cents in on the matter. “Besides,” he leans in close to Henry, whispering conspiratorially. “I’ve got a Pop Quiz to create for tonight’s reading assignment.”

“A Pop Quiz? Tomorrow?” Henry whines, sighing defeatedly as he grabs his guitar from where it leans propped against the side of his desk before trudging out of the classroom. “Aw, man!”

Killian chuckles as Henry goes, his hands sliding into his pockets when he meets her gaze again. She’s not entirely sure what to say. She knows he’s lied, and while there’s a part of her that’s glad for it, there’s also a part of her that strangely... _isn’t_. She opens her mouth, nowhere near certain what she even intends to attempt to verbalize, but he beats her to the punch, saving her from the embarrassment of stuttering through her thoughts and feelings.

“It’s alright, Swan,” he says quietly, rocking back onto his heels. “Some other time, perhaps?”

The words make her heart squeeze in her chest, leaving a dull ache gripping around her heart that propels her forward into his arms. She kisses him gently on the mouth, one hand sliding to the back of his head, fingers twisting through the hair at the nape of his neck like she had wanted to do earlier. She touches her forehead to his when she pulls away, staying close in his space while he hangs onto her.

“For the record, there is nothing more that I would like than to have dinner with you and your boy.”

She kisses him again in lieu of a thank you, those two little words stuck in her throat. “See you on Saturday?” she wonders, and it’s the best she can do by way of apologies.

He smiles at that, a tiny curving of lips that she can’t help but notice is just a little sad around the edges, and it makes her stomach twist into anxious knots.

“Aye,” he replies, thumbing at the little dent in her chin. “Now go on, Henry’s waiting.” He eases her away, pushing her gently towards the door.

\-----

Henry’s always been a stubborn kid. It’s a trait he _definitely_ inherited from her, even if he would call it ‘diligence’ over ‘stubbornness.’ It also happens to be the current source of stress in her life.

Since he had unleashed that first dinner invitation to Killian, he’s made it his life’s mission to get Emma to let Killian come over, and if he’s not working that angle, he tries to get the three of them _together._ In public. Dinner at Granny’s, movie nights, picnics, sailing, breakfast...if it’s something they can do that involves the three of them, he’s got an invitation for it.

Emma, of course, digs her heels in at every turn, always ignoring him or simply brushing him aside. Killian has been nothing short of gracious and kind, constantly declining with a (sometimes poorly) conceived excuse, and just the proper amount of remorse to keep Henry coming back, while the promise of ‘next time’ hangs between them.

Forever unfulfilled.

It always ends with Henry scowling at her, furrowed brow and displeased little frown as he grumbles under his breath about how dumb she’s being.

It always ends with Killian’s encouraging little smile -- _it’s alright, Swan_ \-- which wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t happen to notice the dejection ghosting his mouth, or how the smile itself doesn’t quite reach all the way up to his eyes like it normally does.

It always ends with an ache in her chest that lingers for hours, soothed only by their next stolen moment -- the brush of his lips against hers and the glide of his hands along her skin, the gentle rolling of his hips into hers. It’s the only way she feels forgiven, even if she never asks to be and only ever apologies with lips and touch.

\-----

Sleep comes less and less the longer this continues, and it doesn’t come at all for her one night, after a particularly nasty tantrum and argument with Henry. (He’s a meddler and she’s stubborn. He wants her to be happy and she would argue that she _is_ happy. He thinks she’s lying, she’s just afraid, and she thinks he needs a timeout and should go to his room. He stomps upstairs, grumbling under his breath, and she retreats to her own bed with a scowl on her face and a headache pounding against her temples.)

She spends the remainder of her evening brooding about the fight and the whole dating Killian thing. Or rather, _not_ dating Killian thing. It’s left her feeling uneasy and restless, making her toss and turn in her bed, twisting the blankets around her only to kick them free while she struggles to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in.

She wants to talk to him, not necessarily to vent (especially since some of the venting would be about him), just to have his voice soothe away the anxiety lodged beneath her breastbone. Somehow, he always knows how to take her mind off things, or knows just how to lift her mood. What to say. How to act.

The problem is that he sees too much, can often be too perceptive for his own good. But he just... _understands her_ and while a part of her feels like she needs that right now, she also needs to not complicate matters because her son is too insightful and she can’t get her damn emotions in check. So, really, she’s sort of screwed, stuck with herself and her swirling, unsettled thoughts.

Every thirty seconds, she checks her phone as if expecting to see Killian’s name flashing across the screen in a call or text message, even though it’s almost 2:00 AM, and he’s probably in bed already. Alright, not probably, most _definitely_ , and no amount of willing him to call or text is going to make him actually do it.

But that doesn’t stop _her_ from wanting to text _him_.

Or call.

She really _could_ use the comforting tone of his voice in her ear, the raspy way he chuckles when he thinks she’s said something amusing. She wants him to tell her, in not so many words, that this... _thing_ they’re doing -- whatever it is -- really is alright and that they’re fine and everything is good just the way it is. (That he forgives her for the things she can’t say and the things she won’t do and the truth she keeps dancing around).

Emma whines again, aggressively shoving her phone beneath the pillow beside her in an attempt to keep herself from reaching for it again. ‘ _Out of sight, out of mind,_ ’ at least, that’s the cliched saying.

She rolls over again, sighing heavily and exasperatedly blowing a piece of hair out of her face as she kicks the blankets around her legs once more and tries to settle into a more comfortable position. It’s the last thing she would ever admit out loud, but in the privacy of her mind, she can safely say that it’s far more comfortable for her to fall asleep with Killian against her back, his breath fanning soft across her neck and his leg tucked between hers. With his arm around her waist and their fingers entwined together, resting over her heart. He’s always so warm and solid. (She ignores the little voice in her head that calls him _steady_.)

The thought alone makes her grumble in frustration, sitting up once she’s resigned herself to the fact that she is absolutely not getting any sleep anytime soon. She huffs, staring blankly at the ceiling and the little slivers of moonlight peeking in through the blinds on her windows as they cast glowing beams of light on the opposite wall.

She makes it about another seven seconds before she’s reaching for her phone again.

In an annoying moment of weakness, she gives in, unlocking the screen on her iPhone and going through her contacts until she finds him. She hesitates for a moment, thumb hovering closely over the call button while she chews on her bottom lip. There are so many reasons she shouldn’t do it, self-preservation being at the top of the list, but eventually, it’s the heat from her finger that ends up making the decision for her. Before she can stop it, the screen abruptly changes to read:

_Killian Jones  
_ _calling iPhone..._

Emma panics, swearing under her breath and scrambling to hit the ‘End Call’ button, but he picks up before she even has the chance to be done with it.

There’s a soft swear on the other end of the phone, echoing the one in her head, and her name sounds rough and grumbling in the back of his throat. “Swan? Hello?”

The worry in his voice makes her scrub a hand over her face and she feels doubly horrible for disturbing him. “Sorry, did I wake you?” she asks, scrunching her nose and feeling her skin warm with embarrassment, the heat rising up her neck to bloom in her cheeks and singe the tips of her ears. _Duh_ , of course she woke him. It’s a stupid question to ask, it’s past 2:00 AM now.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he reassures her. “Everything alright?”

She almost tells him she can’t sleep. And the reason why. “Everything’s fine,” she sighs instead. “Look, I’m sorry, Killian. I know you have an early day tomorrow, go back to bed.”

“You sound vexed,” he says instead, voice still sleepy around the yawn he tries to stifle. “I’d offer you a drink, but I’ve no way of getting it to you.”

“Haven’t figured out teleportation yet, _Mr. Jones_?”

“I’m a science teacher, love, not an active scientist.”

He yawns again, and she can’t help but smile. “What’s the difference?”

“I merely communicate what has already been discovered by others to the eager young minds in my classroom. I don’t sit in a lab all day trying to figure out how to break the laws of nature to get myself to you without using some sort of transportation mobile. Or walking.”

She laughs softly at that, settling back against the pillows and letting the cadence of his voice ease her frazzled nerves. “That’s what you would do if you figured out how to teleport? Send yourself to me?”

“Mmhmm,” he agrees, in that tired, adorable voice of his. “Romantic, I know.”

“Romance isn’t really my thing, Dr. Jones.” The words roll off her tongue easily enough.

He pauses a beat, ignoring the title upgrade she had just given him -- ‘Dr. Jones’ actually has a rather nice ring to it, if you ask her -- and she can’t help but feel like there’s a strange little calculating undertone to his voice when he finally says, “Nonsense, everybody enjoys a little wooing.”

“ _Wooing_?” she snorts. “ _Seriously_?”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day, Swan?” he asks, and she really, really hates the charming lilt his voice takes on.

“Oh, _geez_.” Her audible sigh is exaggerated for his benefit, but she doesn’t try to hide the smile that tugs up the corners of her mouth. “Only if you explain it to me. Shakespeare isn’t really one of my strong suits.”

“Done,” he agrees. “Though, perhaps when I’m more fully awake, and I can thoroughly enjoy your reactions -- and when I can actually, you know, remember all of it instead of simply attempting to recite it while half asleep and butchering it in the process.”

“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that you have Shakespeare _memorized_?”

He pauses again and she can practically see his pursed-lips-thinking-face over the phone.“Aye.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she wonders.

“See? _Wooing_.”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Ah, but you like that about me.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “Now, do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Not particularly,” she says quietly, albeit honestly. He hums in understanding, and the fact that he doesn’t press eases the tension in her body -- sometimes it’s just nice to have someone get it.

He doesn’t stop there, beginning to hum a soft melodic tune that sounds suspiciously like ‘Lullaby and Goodnight.’ She giggles at him, rolling onto her side and tucking her arm under her pillow for extra support. She presses her phone closer to her ear in an attempt at getting closer to _him,_ and it’s not the same as when they’re together, not by a long shot, but for now it’s an acceptable substitute.

“ _Really_?”

“Shhh,” he sushes her, voice thick with fatigue. “Just pull the covers up and close your eyes.”

Her next sigh is accompanied by an eyeroll, but there is no heat in the gesture, just pure affection as she does as he requests and focuses on his voice. It doesn’t take much more than that, her eyes beginning to feel heavy, her body slowly relaxing, and just as she starts to drift off into that place between sleep and awake, she swears she hears a quiet, “Goodnight, love.”

\-----

“If you have something on your mind, Emma, just say it.”

She winces at Mary Margaret’s tone, scrunching her nose as she shoves a forkful of home fries into her mouth. She’s been staring at her friend for the better part of ten minutes, trying to figure out if she should tell her so she can ask for advice or tell her just to...get it off her chest. She sighs and reaches for her orange juice instead, taking a sip and another and another, to stall.

“I think...” She huffs, covering her face with her hand once she sets her cup back down. _Ugh_. This is literally the worst possible situation she could have ever found herself in. “I think...”

“I think you should just spit it out. I’m not getting any younger here.”

“ _IlikeKillian_.” She says it in a rush, so the words all bleed together into one agitated confession. It’s absurd, but she has to resist slapping her hand over her mouth when she says it.

Mary Margaret snorts, completely unfazed by the news, and takes a hearty bite of her waffle. “I thought there was no ‘ _you and Killian_.’”

The heat that creeps up into her cheeks is completely unavoidable. “Really? I finally get the nerve to be honest about something and all you can say is, ‘ _I told you so_?’”

“Well, yeah,” she says between chews.

“You aren’t being helpful!” Emma complains, an aggravated noise in the back of her throat.

“Emma, I just...what do you want me to say?” she wonders, eyebrows raised in question

“I think I _like_ like him.”

“I still could have told you that.”

“ _Mary Margaret._ ”

“What?” Her friend shrugs, using her fork to steal some potatoes off Emma’s plate. “I’m not really seeing the problem here.”

She groans again, utensils clattering on her plate as she reaches up to rub little circles into her temples in an attempt to alleviate the headache brewing there. Of course she wouldn’t, there is no bigger believer in hope and love, no bigger advocate for fairytale romances and _Happily Ever After_ s, than Mary Margaret.

“I don’t know what to do,” Emma says defeatedly.

“Emma, honey,” Mary Margaret starts, setting her own utensils down to reach across the table and grip her arm in a soothing, nurturing way. “Killian’s a great guy, there’s nothing wrong with _like_ liking him, and the only thing you _should_ do, is just let things happen organically,” she shrugs. “That’s what I did with David and now look at us. We disgust everyone with our love!”

She laughs, she can’t help it, Mary Margaret’s voice is too cheerful not to, but that doesn’t keep her stomach from flipping over at the mention of the ‘L’ word. “Still not helping!” she retorts, reaching over to grasp a blueberry from her little bowl of fruit between her fingers and chucking it at her.

“Just...take a chance. Let him in. Have hope.” She squeezes Emma’s arm. “I know you hate when I say it, but hope really is the most powerful magic of all, and I can tell you right now that he is _nothing_ like anyone from your past. He’s constant. He shows up for you. So why don’t you just let him make you happy the way that he’s already been doing? Everything else will just...fall into place.”

She breathes deeply through her nose, exhaling slowly in an attempt to unravel the knot in her stomach. It doesn’t help entirely, but it does feel good to get it out instead of keeping it bottled in.

“By the way,” Mary Margaret says, through a mouthful of sausage.

“Hmm?” Emma wonders.

“You still haven’t told me about that time when he-”

“Oh _god!_ ” she grumbles. “I am _not_ telling you about that!”

“ _Why not?_ I’m one of your best friends!”

“You’re married!”

“So? I still have a healthy libido! In fact, just yesterday, David and I-”

“ _Okay, okay_! I’ll tell you, sheesh! Just spare me the details about your sex life. I’d still like to be able to look David in the face today.”

\-----

They go for ice cream on Saturday. She and Henry, out of the blue, after he’d dragged her out of the house to take a break from cleaning. There’s nothing suspicious about the request for cold confections, that is until she’s perusing the flavors at the local ice cream shop, Any Given Sundae, and Henry very blatantly isn’t. Her son seems to have developed more of an interest in the door, watching it like a hawk while impatiently shifting his weight from foot to foot, rather than asking Ingrid, the shop owner, for samples or building a brownie sundae.

Her eyes narrow as she studies him intently, absentmindedly ordering a double scoop of Mint Chip. She notes that he keeps checking the clock on the wall above the cash register, too, and a little itch forms smack-dab in the middle of her shoulder blades.

“You gonna order something, kid?” she calls out.

Henry doesn’t even bother sparing her a look, his head shaking with his eyes trailed on the entrance of the parlor. “Nah, I changed my mind. I don’t really want ice cream.”

Emma purses her lips at him for a second. Henry? Not wanting ice cream? Okay, something is _definitely_ up. She gives Ingrid an apologetic shrug and a polite smile when she hands Emma back her change. She’s just turning around to face Henry again when the bell above the door of the store rings, signaling someone’s arrival.

Killian’s to be exact.

“Killian!” Henry beams, bounding over to him like an over eager puppy. “There you are- I mean... _hey!_ How’s it going?”

He looks as surprised as Emma feels, his gaze darting back and forth between her and Henry. He clears his throat, scratching behind his ear in a blatant show of nerves. “Hello...lad,” he greets carefully, glancing over at her again.

Her stomach flips about a dozen times in the span of three heartbeats.

“What are you...doing here?” he asks, and though the question is directed at Henry, his eyes remain fixated on her.

“Oh, you know,” Henry says casually, sneaking a look over at her also. “Just getting some ice cream with my mom. Mom, look who’s here! It’s Killian! Isn’t that a nice coincidence?”

Coincidence her ass.

She watches Henry’s head cant over to Killian while he gives her a wide, toothy grin accompanied with a very stern ‘ _you better behave_ ’ look.

“Oh!” Henry says then, chuckling a little too forcibly. “Is that Grace? I think I see Grace out there. I’m just gonna go say hi! You guys have fun!”

Before Emma can even get another breath in, he’s out the door like a shot, leaving her awkwardly standing there with Killian’s wide, remorseful eyes boring into hers. She can feel her cheeks flush, and when he steps towards her, his expression looks pained.

“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. “I had no idea that you were going to-”

She shakes her head slightly, cutting off his thought with a wordless warning that reminds him they aren’t alone. She motions over to the case. “There’s a special on sundaes today.”

The smile he gives her is a little tight around his mouth, but he takes another cautious step in her direction, as if afraid she’ll go bounding off like a magical woodland creature that’s been suddenly startled. He’s not far off the mark, but she’s determined to hold her ground.

“Really?” he asks. “Hmm. That sounds delightfully tempting, but-”

On cue, Ingrid steps out from behind the counter, handing Killian a cone with two scoops of white ice cream. Vanilla probably, with...chunky chocolate? She thinks so, at least.

“Your usual, Mr. Jones,” Ingrid says cheerfully.

“Ah, thank you, milady. You truly are a confectionary master,” he replies.

“Oh, flattery will get you everywhere, smart guy,” she laughs, patting him affectionately on the arm. “See you next Saturday.” Then she turns her gaze to Emma. “Sheriff.”

She gives Emma a parting look, one of the ones that pass between women when an attractive man is involved. Her nose scrunches with her smile and Emma has to leave before her cheeks flame so hot with embarrassment they melt all the ice cream and put Ingrid out of business for the day. Killian beats her to the door, of course, opening it for her in that chivalrous way of his that simultaneously makes her sigh dreamily and want to clobber him over the head.

“Have a nice day!” Ingrid calls after them, and judging by her tone, Emma imagines that the news of she and Killian having ice cream together will reach the town limits before dinnertime. Sooner if Leroy, the town gossipmonger, happens to get word of it.

She sighs quietly to herself. “Alright,” she mutters, absolutely annoyed with her son. “Where has that little weasel who likes to call himself my kid gone off to?”

“Probably hiding around building corners or lurking over there in the bushes by Granny’s,” he gestures with his free hand. “Making sure we behave according to plan.”

Emma definitely wouldn’t put it past him.

At her silence, Killian takes his turn to sigh. “I’m really sorry, love,” he shakes his head, eyes downcast as his tongue pokes into his cheek.

She can’t take the apologetic look on his face, the way he shoulders the blame and thinks _he’s_ the one at fault. The little pang in her chest. “Killian,” she interrupts. “You have nothing to be sorry for, it’s not your fault that my son is a conniving little hooligan.” One she intends on grounding for the rest of eternity.

He chuckles softly at that, eyes darting around for any sign of Henry. “Look at it this way, he’s got to come home sometime.”

“Yeah, that he does.” She’s not sure why she does it, but the words are out before she can stop them, let alone take them back. Or think too much about them. “It’s a nice day out...and I heard there were swans in the harbor yesterday. Do you...” She gestures with a wave of her hand, hoping he understands what she means to ask but can’t seem to find the words to properly convey it.

“Really?”

“I’ve been cooped up at home, cleaning all day,” she shrugs. “I could use a little sunshine.”

“Oh,” he says, a little wonderstruck, a little too adorable for his own good. “I’d like nothing more.”

“It’s just a walk,” she reminds him, but she ducks her head shyly, hiding her smile behind her ice cream cone as she turns away from him and begins the short stroll towards the harbor. She leads and he follows, as he always does, and it doesn’t escape her notice how mindful he is of maintaining a safe distance between them. It makes her heart squeeze -- sweetly and achingly.

“So next Saturday, huh?” She breaks the silence when they reach the water’s edge, leaning back against the railing and licking at her ice cream, her free hand attempting to tuck her wind-tousled hair behind her ear.

“Ingrid makes a mean Rum Raisin,” he explains.

Emma laughs at that, just one quiet, little, amused laugh. “ _Rum Raisin_?”

“That predictable, am I?” he chuckles.

“Considering that rum was what we had that first night we-” She cuts off abruptly, she hadn’t meant to say that out loud and now she is unable to finish the thought, memories of that evening they’d met (and fucked each other senseless) flooding her system and sending heat coursing through her veins.

“Aye,” he agrees, and judging by his sudden quietness, by the look that blankets his face, she knows his thoughts have drifted off in the same general direction as hers. “That was a good night,” he says after a beat, tone just a bit wistful and full of nostalgia.

She gives him a playful little shove, eliciting another laugh out of him. “What? It was!”

There is no neutral comment she could possibly make about that, so she simply hums noncommittally and pushes off the railing to continue along the boardwalk, eating her ice cream as she goes, waiting for him catch up.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Swan, but you look lovely with roses in your cheeks.”

She has nothing to say about that either, ignoring the sidelong glance he gives her. The way his dimples flank his mouth, charming and boyish.

It’s quiet along the docks, just a few townsfolk enjoying the view and the weather, but she still starts when their hands accidentally brush a little while later.

“Sorry,” she tells him.

“My fault,” he says at the same time.

They both laugh at their antics, falling into step and an easy silence with each other. Emma’s fingers itch with the desire to twine with his, so to play it safe, she hooks her thumb into the pocket of her jeans. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Killian but he makes no mention of it, content just to walk beside her as they take in the cloudless blue sky and the breeze that eases the warmth of the sun on their skin and ruffles their hair.

“What’s that?” Killian wonders after a moment, leaning in close and pointing at something in the distance out on the water.

Her eyes squint out at the horizon, attempting to follow the line of his outstretched arm and finger, but not really sure what she’s supposed to be looking at. She suspects it’s nothing the second Killian pounces, chomping down and stealing a hearty bite of her ice cream.

“Hey!” She pushes him again, unable to keep the smile from her face at the picture he makes with mint green stained around his mouth.

“Mmm. That’s not bad,” he says, licking at his lips and swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You missed a spot,” she grumbles back, shaking her head at him.

“Where?”

“Right there.”

“Right _where_ , Swan? I can’t exactly see, you know.”

She pauses then, turning her body towards him and pointing at a spot just below his lips. He tilts his head down as if to look, and it was the exact reflexive reaction she was hoping for. Her hand moves up, catching his nose on the way and making his head snap back. He curses at her, and her giggle fills the space between them, making him gripe while he tilts his head away and scrunches his nose at her.

“Oh, you just think you’re so cute, don’t you?”

“Nope,” she answers, popping the ‘p’ noisily before she takes another bite of her ice cream. “But you do. Besides, payback’s a bitch.”

“Well, you’ve got me there. On both counts,” he says quietly, giving her another smile as they continue their leisurely stroll. “Do you want some of mine?”

“It has raisins.”

“It has _cinnamon_ ,” he counters, offering it to her.

Emma rolls her eyes but wraps her hand around his wrist to hold the cone steady while she goes in for a little nibble, careful to avoid the dried fruit. She’s never been able to resist the call of cinnamon.

Flavor blooms on her tongue -- spice and sugar and the sharp taste of rum. He was right, Ingrid makes a mean Rum Raisin. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Told ya.” This time he’s the one to stop, snagging her by the arm until she halts beside him. He gestures at her mouth where she’s licking the ice cream from the corner. “Now who’s missed a spot?”

But instead of waiting for her to ask where, he merely inches forward, the tips of his boots bumping into the tips of hers. He hooks her chin with his index finger, a bold move that catches her off guard and pushes the breath up into her lungs. He tilts her chin up and uses his thumb to wipe away the excess ice cream. Their eyes meet after he’s satisfied that he’s gotten the last of it and she has to swallow against the lump in her throat before she can speak.

“Thanks.” Her voice sounds a lot hoarser than she would like it to.

“Anytime.”

He shifts his hand, fingertips burning a path along her cheek, searing down the line of her jaw, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to kiss her. Between the way he’s looking at her -- gaze flickering between her eyes and lips -- and the way his body shuffles further into her space, it seems like an extremely likely possibility. One she’s not entirely sure she’s ready for -- on the docks, in broad daylight, where anyone could see -- but surprisingly it’s not panic that settles into her stomach. It’s anticipation. Because for a moment, she thinks that if he _does_ try to kiss her, she might just let him.

And she might just like it.

All he does is smile at her, though, ducking his head before dropping his hand and putting some distance between them. He takes a steadying breath, shoving his free hand into the pocket of his jeans, and if she knows him at all, it’s to keep from reaching for her again.

“It seems the only swan around these parts today is you.”

“Yeah, it looks like it.”

“I should go,” he says softly.

“Killian-”

“I’d rather not push my luck.”

There it is again. That smile that’s just a little too sad around the edges. The one that makes her heart hurt.

“I’ll be back at the shop next Saturday, if you find yourself in the mood for more ice cream.” He scuffs his shoe against the wood, then rocks back on his heels and gives her a shrug. “Or a walk.”

“Okay.” It’s the best reply she’s got for him, unsure of what else to say.

“Have a good night, love. Tell Henry I’ll see him at school on Monday and he better have a song picked out for the end of the year talent show.”

He takes his leave then, one last smile for her over his shoulder as he goes. Emma watches him all the way down the docks, until he disappears around the corner of one of the buildings. She sits down on a nearby bench only when her feet start to ache from standing for so long, absentmindedly finishing off her cone while her thoughts swirl around in her head.

Well, as far as first public outings go, this one wasn’t so bad. Nobody died, the world didn’t end, and they both walked away in one piece. Maybe she _will_ take him up on his offer for next Saturday.

(Maybe.)

_Fin_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just keeps getting longer. Meep.

She doesn’t ground Henry. But she definitely ignores the triumph dancing in his eyes and the self-satisfied smirk curving his lips when she gets home a few hours later, marching straight past his place on the couch without so much as a ‘ _hey, kid_ ’ and retreating directly to her room.

She doesn’t meet Killian the following Saturday for ice cream either. But she gets really, _really_ close to doing it, making it about halfway down the walkway of her house before chickening out and spinning on her heel to make a hasty retreat.

(It’s something she can’t stop thinking about the rest of the day, distracted even when he calls to wish her goodnight. While he doesn’t mention anything about the missed meeting, the fact that she’d been intentionally absent weighs heavily in the forefront of her mind. She’s still mulling over it a few days later when she picks up Henry on Tuesday, stubbornly waiting in the car instead of picking him up from the classroom like she usually would.

Killian makes no comment about _that_ either.)

The next time they see each other is that Saturday, under the cover of night, with no cold confections in sight. She shows up to his place just past 8:00 PM, fusing her mouth to his the second he lets her in. The door shuts firmly behind her with a swift kick of her foot and she wastes no time walking him backwards all the way into his room. Her foot hooks around his leg she tumbles them into his bed with practiced ease, his breathless laughter ringing in her ears and her own giggles muffled from where she’s buried her face in his neck. When he rolls over her, pinning her beneath the hard lines of his body, it’s so easy to lose herself in that -- in _him_ \-- his eager lips and impatient hands acting as a beacon to guide her way.

Hours pass after, time irrelevant in the aftermath of their passions. Emma doesn’t mind, remaining snuggled up into his side while he dozes, legs tangled with his as she shares his warmth beneath the thin sheet he had drawn over them earlier. The rest of the blankets lay on a heap across his floor, both of them too lazy to leave the comfort of the bed to retrieve them. Skin-to-skin contact and body heat will just have to suffice, but she suspects that _he_ doesn’t mind one bit.

Her fingertips lightly trace nonsensical patterns into his skin -- swirling loops just beneath the line of his collarbone, figure-eights over and over on the space above his heart, charting zig zags across his torso so the dusting of hair there tickles her fingers.

She counts each solid beat of his heart between the measured rise and fall of his chest. It’s steady, and Emma finds it difficult to ignore the symbolism in that -- too dazed from his attentions, too comforted by the weight of his arm curled around her and his hand resting possessively over her hip, too vulnerable with her cheek pillowed against his shoulder.

It’s much later when she leaves, the moon low in the sky and the light of dawn very, very faintly chasing after it. Killian lingers with his dreams instead of waking to her quiet shuffling around the room as she gathers her belongings. There is an unhurried air to her movements, like a reluctance almost, and she keeps sneaking glances at him while she dresses. Hoping he doesn’t wake. Hoping that he does.

Before she goes, she brushes the hair back from his forehead and leans over him to kiss his brow.

One part of the sky is a lighter shade of blue than the other by the time she makes it outside. Not very much, but enough to make her tread along her ‘no-overnights’ rule questionable. Surprisingly, she feels rather calm about the whole thing. But that could also be a result of having a lot of _other_ thoughts that are crowding her head that morning, the main one being that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she were steady for him too.

If it was something they could figure out how to be...together.

\-----

She’s got impeccable timing.

It’s nearing the end of the school year and the start of Summer break by the time she works up the courage to maybe-kinda-sorta ask Killian out on a date. A _date_ date.

(Jesus Christ.)

She hadn’t been expecting that the impending seasonal shift would thwart her plans, though.

His schedule is packed to the brim with work-related things: finalizing lesson plans and end of the year projects, grading assignments, organizing the school’s talent show, and a slew of other things that has kept them diligently -- and annoyingly -- apart. The only time they’ve really had to see each other is when she picks Henry up, and even then, she gets no more than his fingers twisting around a lock of her hair, his mouth sweet and gentle on hers. Well, sometimes sweet, other times rough and eager and demanding (she likes those days _a lot_ ), but always a quiet apology for the time they haven’t been able to carve out for just the two of them.

No one is more shocked than she is, when she wakes one morning and realizes that she...she misses him. Not just for the sex, which, to be honest, she _definitely_ misses. But she misses his jokes too, and his laugh, and the way his eyes crinkle around the edges when he smiles. She misses his wit and his charm and how his hand always has a knack for finding her’s. The way their fingers twine together. She misses his scent. His warmth. How thoroughly he kisses her so that her breath expels in short, ragged puffs of air against his lips when they break apart, and his name turns into some sort of mantra in her head.

She just...she _misses_ him.

And it’s not like he’s been completely _absent_ , really it’s just mostly been in the physical sense. They still talk every single day. He messages her song recommendations for her workout playlist or long patrol days, and she emails him astrology articles she thinks he’ll find interesting or enjoy reading during his lunch hour. And he always calls before bed to ask her about her day, to wish her goodnight and tell her sweet dreams (only ever of _him_ , of course, and the sentiment regularly pulls a snorting laugh from her).

Despite all of that, it’s still not the same as when they’re together, so she can hardly be blamed when by the second week of this, she’s reached the end of her rope. After numerous sleepless nights and this unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach that’s been making her edgy (Henry would argue ‘cranky’) and constantly restless, she randomly shows up to his classroom one day -- during his lunch break -- to _finally_ ask him out on a proper date.

His back is to her when she gets there, and the sentence he’d been writing on the chalkboard promptly loses the period at the end in favor of a long squiggly line that appears in its place when the shock of her question makes his hand jerk on the board.

And promptly snap the piece of chalk in half.

He pauses for a breath, then turns to face her with squinting eyes and a scrunched nose. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you out?”

“I should have known you’d be old fashioned. What are you, like three hundred?”

Piercing eyes of blue study her for a long while, his gaze flitting across her face in a deliberate sweep that makes her want to wring the hem of her shirt with her hands. She doesn’t, but it’s a near thing.

It takes him a second, probably due to being temporarily stunned by the momentousness of her offer, but she has to give him credit for a quick recovery. As soon as he regains his bearings, he shuffles over to her, all confident swagger and playful eyes. His tongue pokes into his cheek as he leads with his hips like he always does when he sees the perfect opportunity to flirt with her. It’s amazing how swiftly that puts her at ease.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll happily accept on one condition: you let me plan the evening.”

“Hey, I know how to plan a date!” she argues.

“You know how to keep the town orderly, I know how to plan an evening out.”

“Well, for your information, I’ve already got the evening planned, _Mr. Jones_. So, _apologies_ , as you would say. But this round goes to me.” Her smile is immensely pleased.

“Oh?” His brow quirks at that, never one to resist a challenge. “Been thinking about this for awhile, have you?” The teasing lilt to his voice makes her cheeks flush just a bit. Makes him reach out and stroke the back of his index finger along the curve of it, eyes following the line of color and making the corners of his lips tug up. “Well, you’ve officially piqued the interest of the class, Ms. Swan. Please, enlighten us. I should warn you, though. I don’t pillage and plunder on the first date.”

They both know that’s a lie, given their first- ah, evening out (or rather, _in_ ), and this time she’s the one that shuffles a bit closer. “Dinner.”

He smiles again, making an approving little hum in the back of his throat. “Where?”

Emma doesn’t answer right away, the pause as much for dramatic effect as it is to allow herself the opportunity to take in his ‘before and after’ faces once she drops another bomb on him. “My place.”

Whatever smartass retort he’s already got on his tongue abruptly disappears at her revelation. Whatever playful smugness had been on his face quickly vanishes, replaced by an expression of surprise and quiet wonder. “Oh.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she nods her head in agreement, her own grin full of amusement as her fingers dance up his shirt to wipe imaginary chalk dust off his chest.

“What about Henry?” he asks quietly.

Emma hasn’t forgotten what he’d said a while back, about wanting to have dinner with them both. It certainly was tempting, but she’s trying for baby steps, wading into the pool instead of diving in headfirst. On the deep end. Without a flotation device. Besides, she selfishly wants him to herself for an evening before they start adding Henry into the mix.

( _Jesus Christ_.)

“Sleepover,” she replies casually, hoping that her little burst of anxiety remains her little secret. She inches forward until the tips of her boots bump lightly into the tips of his, loving the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard and absolutely does not miss the way his eyes flicker to her lips. “So it’ll just be you...and me...and a table for two.” And whatever happens after, but she doesn’t say that, simply lets it dangle unspoken and enticing in the air.

“Oh,” he breathes again, softer this time.

“ _Oh_ ,” she whispers back, leaning up on her toes to brush her smile gently over his lips in a chaste little kiss. “Does 7:00 PM work for you?”

All he can do is nod, dumbfounded, and it makes the corners of her mouth tug up wide and happy. He’s always been so good with words, and she likes that she’s able to render him speechless for once.

“Great. See you then.”

She kisses him again, and this time, it’s not chaste. It’s the complete opposite of chaste. It’s voracious and impatient. Passionate. Full of all of her frustration and everything she’s missed about him in the last few weeks. It’s full of her courage, and just enough of her nerves for it to be a little desperate. To make her grip at his shirt and wrinkle it while she tries to anchor herself to something. To _him_. He lets her take, lets her set the pace, lets her press against him so that not a scant bit of space exists between them.

She leaves him with a parting little nip to his bottom lip...and maybe an extra sway of her hips on her way out the door just for good measure -- a silent promise of what’s to come.

\-----

Emma goes all out for the evening, taking her time to get ready, indulging in a luxurious bubble bath then rubbing sweet-smelling lotion all over her skin. She takes even greater care to select the perfect outfit too. Initially, she had wanted to go with something sexy, a black skin-tight number that left little to the imagination, reminiscent of the red dress she’d worn that first night they’d been together. It didn’t feel right when she put it on, though, her lips pursing and eyes narrowing in thought while she stared at her reflection and studied herself from different angles -- over her shoulder, side-view, full frontal.

In the end she surprises herself, picking something soft and more feminine instead. So unlike her normal day-to-day and even previous date nights long before him. It’s a pale pink dress that flows past her knees, miles of silky chiffon accented by a v-shaped neckline and nude heels.

She piles her hair up high at the top of her head, curling the ends, and smoothing out the bumps with hairspray. Perfume is dabbed onto her wrists and inside her elbows, then just below her ear where he likes to nuzzle his nose and press his lips. She’s even got a surprise for him underneath the dress, one she knows will knock him off his feet and one, she _hopes_ , he’ll never be able to resist: _absolutely_ _nothing_.

None of the other details are overlooked either -- candles everywhere, glowing warm throughout the house, quiet romantic music to set the mood, and her best dish simmering on low atop the stove.

He knocks on the door promptly at 7:00 PM and she takes a breath on the other side before she answers. She’s got butterflies in her stomach, jittery hands that tremble slightly and palms that are just a bit damp when she grasps the doorknob. But she feels good. _This_ feels good. (She could even argue that it feels _right_.)

She’s delighted to discover, upon pulling the door open, that _he_ doesn’t skimp out on any details either. He looks dashing in his dark jeans and deep blue dress shirt, his black vest beneath the leather jacket completing the ensemble. He looks more rockstar than teacher tonight, a callback to the evening they’d first met, perhaps, and she wonders if he intends to seduce her the same way he’d done then.

Judging by the expression on his face, however, it’s he who is ultimately seduced.

His gaze is full of awe as he takes her in, head shaking slightly before he meets her eyes and tells her she looks stunning. It makes the butterflies in her stomach dance, wings beating fiercely to time with the pounding of her heart against her ribcage. It’s almost too much, the way he looks at her. Like she’s something special, something precious.

She hides her shy smile behind a sniff of the single red rose he suavely presents to her, and steps aside to welcome him in. It’s been a long time since she’s gotten any flowers and she feels stupidly giddy over the bloom. The flower is not the only gift he’s brought with him, though, he’s got her favorite bottle of wine by the neck in his other hand and she chuckles lightly. “You really went all out.”

“You’re one to talk, love,” he replies, following her into the kitchen and setting the alcohol on the counter before casually looking around. There’s an adorable expression on his face, a smile full of secrets as he stands leaning against the counter with his hands tucked into the pockets of jeans.

“What?” she asks, taking a bud vase down from one of her cupboards and moving to the sink to fill it with some water.

“Nothing,” he replies, shaking his head. But his smile remains in place. “You have a beautiful home, and it smells wonderful in here.”

“Thank you, on both counts.” She beams with pride as she sets the flower in the vase and the vase near the window. It’s the perfect spot for it to catch the sunlight and unfurl in its warmth tomorrow. (She’s sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but she tries not to think too much about it.) “And you’re in for a treat. Henry tells me it’s my best dish.”

“Well, we’ll have to toast in his honor then, for recommending the menu,” he grins at her when she looks over at him again. “Shall I- ah- pour us some libations?”

“Please,” she nods. “That would be great. Wine opener’s in the drawer to your left and the glasses are in that cupboard behind you. Who told you about the wine?”

“Who do you think?”

It’s his amused tone that makes her turn to face him. “Leroy,” she says.

“ _Leroy_ ,” he agrees, a mixture of nerves and mild irritation causing his nose to wrinkle adorably. “He caught me at the store.”

She knows why he gets that particular look on his face, though. The uneasy/worried one. The entire town probably already knows that she’s got him over for dinner by now, and if not, they’ll know by the end of the hour.

It won’t be a secret anymore, the two of them.

“Well...it seems your reputation is ruined now,” she comments lightly, hoping to coax his smile back into place.

He gives her a curious stare, but picks up on the teasing lilt to her voice. “Is that right?”

“Oh yeah. Cozying up to the local law enforcement? They’ll say you’ve gone soft. Lost your edge. That you couldn’t handle it.”

His brow arches at that, high on his forehead. “Perhaps _you’re_ the one who couldn’t handle it.”

She makes a noncommittal hum in the back of her throat, accompanied with a mischievous smirk and an easy shrug of her shoulders as she turns back around. It’s a challenge if there ever was one and she fully intends to make good on it.

She’s going to annihilate him tonight. No mercy. But first, dinner.

The conversation shifts with ease, the two of them making small talk as they effortlessly maneuver around the kitchen together. They take turns sharing stories about their day while he pours them drinks and she fusses with the appetizers. She is mid-tale about David and -- _hah!_ \-- Leroy and their adventures with a weedwacker earlier that morning when she absentmindedly waves him over to the table.

He steps up to her instead, right into her space, chest warm against her back as he catches her off-guard and noses at that spot just below her ear. Promptly making every other thought slip from her mind. She turns her head and feels her stomach swoop when her nose brushes across his temple. He appears to have had the same thought as her: _No. Mercy._

Killian hums, an appreciative sound that sends a shiver across her shoulders. “You smell divine,” he murmurs, lips grazing over her skin with his words.

Her head reflexively cants to give him better access and the sigh that slips past her lips is one of complete contentment when she feels him press a kiss over that same spot. Both heat and desire coil languidly in her belly, a sweet jolt of anticipation fluttering down her spine. She turns and they move in tandem, her hands sliding up his chest to grip at his shoulders while he cups her face with both of his hands.

She can’t be absolutely certain who had actually moved first, who gets the point for the imaginary scoreboard she’s keeping in her head, just knows that she doesn’t really care anymore. Not when their lips touch. Not when her eyes close and she allows herself to drown in him -- his taste, his smell, the gentle push and pull of his mouth, the feel of his body pressing hers into the counter. Not when one of his hands finds its way into her hair, cradling the back of her head just below her ponytail.

He kisses her slowly, taking as much time as he wishes, igniting the fiercest of aches in her chest at his tenderness and breath-stealing thoroughness. He tilts his head, taking her a little deeper into the moment as swipes his tongue over her bottom lip. The gesture elicits some noise in the back of her throat, a quiet little moan that paints his smile against her lips. She makes it again when his tongue dips into her mouth, a little louder this time while it strokes deliciously against hers. She’s lost to him when he pulls away, so enraptured that she chases after his mouth and leans forward in an attempt to stay as close to him as possible.

“Apologies, love,” he says when he shifts further back to look at her, his hands a soothing caress that moves across her shoulders and down her arms until he can link their hands together. He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry at all. Hardly looks it either what with his eyes gleaming that way and the corners of his mouth curving up wickedly. “I couldn’t resist. I’d have been thinking of it all night otherwise.”

Something warm and delicate unfurls in her stomach -- in her chest -- and she grins at him, her nose crinkling in the process. He lingers just a moment longer, forehead touching hers as he bumps their noses together, and for a second she thinks he means to kiss her again. Hopes for it, even (and then some), counting the beats of her heart, waiting with baited breath for the sweet press of his lips once more. But instead he steps away from her, releasing her hands and angling slightly to offer her his arm. “Shall we?”

Emma shakes her head at his never-ending chivalry, but loops her arm through his, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow and following just a step behind him as he leads her towards the table.

\-----

He is charming and sweet at dinner, but that doesn’t surprise her. She even finds it endearing the way his hand never strays far from hers -- if he’s not resting it over hers across the table, or beneath with his palm up and the tips of her fingers memorizing the grooves and lines of his palm, their fingers are simply intertwined. Conversation flows freely, never an awkward moment of silence. The time is filled with jokes and anecdotes, and random things that make them each smile in turn.

It’s apparent right away that there’s something... _different_ about tonight. She wonders if it’s him, but she has a sneaking suspicion that it’s actually _her._ It’s a musing she doesn’t stray on for too long, though, much more focused on the way his eyes keep drifting across her face, making her cheeks pink and her ears warm with the open honesty and vulnerability in his gaze. It’s overwhelming at times, how he feels about her. How he just wears his heart on his sleeve. She thinks he doesn’t even realize the extent of it, and while it twists her stomach into knots, it also makes her own heart skip a beat (or two).

For dessert she finds herself moving to his side, dragging her chair over and sitting close enough to steal bites of his chocolate cake. He makes it a point to swipe huge spoonfuls of creme brûlée from her shallow dish, so she figures they’re even. Eventually, though, they end up swapping plates altogether, laughing over their antics.

Afterwards, they work as a unit to clear the table and then spend a few minutes arguing over who is on dish duty before compromising and agreeing to do them together (he washes, she dries). She kicks her shoes off, near his chair where he’s draped his jacket, and stands with her hands on her hips, watching him roll up his sleeves before they start their production line of two. He makes some cheeky comment about them making a good team and proceeds to steal kisses from her in between hand-offs. It’s hard to mind when she steals them right back.

Once they’re finished, dry and smelling of lemon, she pulls the towel from his grasp and traps him against the sink, endeavoring to kiss him senseless in exchange for his help. And to put them back on an even playing field after the kiss he’d laid on her earlier.

He’s not as quiet in manner this time, his fingers digging into her hips and his mouth giving as good as he gets, and when they come up for air -- lungs burning and chests heaving, liquid heat simmering in her veins, the rich taste of wine and sugar on her lips -- the question sits heavily on the tip of her tongue. The invitation to move things to the more appropriate setting of her bedroom. But he cuts her off, easing away and slipping off to go fiddle with the music.

(Giving her a chance to catch her breath with her fist pressed tight to the spot just beneath her breastbone.)

She lifts her brow at his selection when he turns it up and meets her gaze across the room. Her knowing smirk causes him roll his eyes, cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink as he makes a show of scratching behind his ear.

“Come on,” he tells her, holding his hand out to her, gallant as a prince.

She doesn’t ask about his intentions. It was quite clear with the first bluesy piano notes of the unfamiliar song that he isn’t quite done sweeping her off her feet yet. So she slides her fingers across his palm, curling them around his hand and hanging on tight when he tugs her towards the back door. They make their way down the porch steps to the center of her yard, where the moon hangs low and the stars shine bright against a dark canvas of night sky.

For the first time that night, he surprises her, lifting their joined hands and expertly twirling her under his arm before drawing her in close into a relaxed dance hold.

“ _Are you kidding me?_ ” she wonders, mock-exasperation in her voice. “You can dance too?”

“It’s completely unfair, I know,” he chuckles, resting his cheek against the side of her head when she tucks her chin over his shoulder.

Music continues to drift out through the open windows of the house -- soft, melodic, charmingly instrumental -- and between that and him and the moonlit grassy dance floor she’s swaying on, she is utterly enchanted. Especially by the closeness of their bodies, the warmth of his palm pressed against hers, how her skirt fans gently around her calves every time his legs brush hers. It is its own brand of intimacy, new and unfamiliar but...familiar at the same time and not at all unpleasant.

“I hate you,” she sighs, but it sounds more dreamy and wistful than anything else.

“I hope not,” he replies, a quiet murmur near her ear.

She could never. “This is a nice song,” she comments after a while.

He hums in agreement and she can sense the smile on his face without seeing it. “It’s by The Vince Guaraldi Trio.”

“What’s it called?”

“‘ _Since I Fell For You_.’”

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes, a gentle puff of air against his chest from where she shifts to rest her forehead against his neck.

He must feel the sudden tension that comes into her body because he chuckles into her hair. “Relax, Swan. It’s just a song.”

“And a dance.”

“Yeah.”

But she hears the softness in his tone, feels the way his fingertips trail up and down her spine and how he settles his arm more firmly around her.   

“It’s pretty,” she says, swallowing thickly when he places their clasped hands over his heart.

“So are you,” he comments.

“You said that already.”

“I know, but it’s worth repeating.”

“Shall you compare me to a summer’s day, Mr. Jones?” she wonders, tilting her head back and smiling up at him while he grins down at her.

Her eyes are full of mirth and his dance with amusement. He laughs lightly at her, lips brushing gently over her brow.

“ _Thou art more lovely and more temperate:  
_ _Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,  
_ _And summer's lease hath all too short a date:  
_ _Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,  
_ _And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;  
_ _And every fair from fair sometime declines..._ ”

It takes almost nothing for her to be completely mesmerized by the cadence of his voice and the captivating ebb and flow of the words he recites. She doesn’t understand all of it, but she definitely understands the _feeling_ such old words are meant to convey and it’s staggeringly _beautiful_.

“ _By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;  
_ _But thy eternal summer shall not fade  
_ _Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;  
_ _Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,  
_ _When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;  
_ _So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,  
_ _So long lives this, and this gives life to thee._ ”

“Oh,” she breathes again, softly against his neck when he’s finished, and it suddenly feels like there’s magic in the air, tangible and settling around them, drawing out a myriad of emotions she wasn’t expecting to feel tonight -- tranquil, enamored, _cherished_.

“ _Oh_ ,” he agrees, his quiet little chuckle pleased beyond measure. “See, Swan? I told you, everyone enjoys a little romance now and then. Even you.” He moves their hands from where they rest over his heart so that he can boop her affectionately on the end of her nose with his index finger.

She rolls her eyes and she scrunches her face at him, but there’s no heat in the gesture. “Alright, _fine_ , Casanova. You were right.”

The grin that curves his lips makes his dimples crease in his cheeks, but instead of the smart retort she knows he’s got for her, he leans down to fit his mouth against hers. This time, when they kiss, it’s no less passionate, but it’s infinitely more soft. Tender. Full of the things they feel but never say.

She starts to ease him backwards, hands drifting up his torso and beginning to work at the buttons of his vest while they take careful steps across the lawn. Somehow, they make it safely up the porch stairs, stopping just inside the entryway of the kitchen. Killian uses her body weight beneath his to shut the door behind them.

The kiss shifts in tone, but still he doesn’t rush, he simply kisses her deeper, harder, mouth moving fervently over hers as lust blooms in her belly and begins to spark along her skin. “I’ve missed you,” she confesses, voice sounding rough and needy to her ears.

“Have you?”

“Mmhmm.”

He swears at that, entire body stilling above hers. “Bloody hell, love, I’ve missed you too.”

“ _Well..._ why don’t we put an end to our misery and _un_ -miss each other?” She smiles, hand carding through his hair. “In my room.”

His forehead drops to her shoulder with another groan. “It’s getting late.”

Of all the things she’d been expecting him to say, _that_ was definitely at the very bottom of the list. “ _What?_ ”

“It’s getting late,” he repeats, gently wrapping his hands around her wrists and pulling them between them to keep her fingers from wandering. “I should take my leave.”

“You don’t want to...” she trails off, unable to finish the thought while she studies his face.

His expression looks pained and he steps back to give them both a little breathing room. “Not tonight.”

In her bewilderment, all she can manage to do is blink. It’s accompanied not long after by a weak and very despondent, “Oh. Um. Alright.”

Killian gives her a reassuring smile, bending his head to brush a kiss to the knuckles of both her hands. With a gentle tug, he draws her away from the door and makes his way towards the main entrance of the house. The walk to the car is silent, the quietest they’ve been all night, and a little ball of worry lodges into her throat.

“Perhaps next time we can try that new bistro that’s opened near the docks.”

“Next time?” She angles her head to glance over at him. Her incessant confusion tugs down the corners of her mouth into a pout. She hates pouting. “I don’t remember asking.”

“That’s because it’s my turn,” he retorts, mouth tugging up into another smile. He turns to face her and pulls both her hands up so he can lace his fingers through hers. “What do you say, Swan? Will you allow me the honor of seeing you again tomorrow?”

There is nothing but softness and vulnerability on his face. A smile so hopeful and affection so staggering she forgets to breathe for a second. The doubt that had worked itself into her head promptly dissipates at his sincerity, and in lieu of an answer, she kisses him again.

She keeps her forehead pressed to his when she breaks away. “Before you leave, I have a confession to make.” It’s playing dirty, but she doesn’t care. If she’s not getting any sleep tonight, she’s going to damn well make sure that he doesn’t either.

“Uh-oh, another one?” Her nod makes their noses bump together.  “And what might that be, darling?”

Emma leans back so she can meet his gaze, then smiles widely as she trails her fingers down the leanly muscled planes of his torso. “I’m not wearing any underwear,” she tells him matter-of-factly, borderline smug.

“ _Emma_ ,” he whines, tilting his forehead to hers once more. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

Her arms sneak around him, looping across his neck, while she presses her body into his again. “Well, the night’s still young and there’s quite a bit of _pillaging and plundering_ to be had if you wanted to change your mind. Just saying,” she shrugs, the perfect image of innocence.

The swear under his breath cannot be called anything other than frustrated, but she has to admit, she loves the way his voice sounds so wrecked and grumbly.

“Kiss me goodbye, Swan,” he sighs, leaning away to run his hand down the length of her ponytail. “And it’ll be tomorrow before you know it.”

She huffs in defeat but does as he asks, touching her lips to his a final time and already counting down the hours.

_Fin_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shout out to everyone following along on this exploration of emotional intimacy between Emma and Killian in this little verse. It’s been a labor of love the past month and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate every little bit of love and feedback on this fic. You guys are rockstars and you have my whole heart! Xx

The next night is no different from the first, with romance in abundance and the two of them continuing to discover how to traverse the intricacies of this... _dating thing_. He takes her to that fancy new restaurant right on the harbor as promised, strolling with her down along the water after their meal -- her shoes in his hand, his jacket warm across her shoulders, and their arms around each other’s waists. He kisses her under the cover of starlight, away from the prying eyes and the chatty mouths of small-towners -- so agonizingly slow and tender it makes her heart swell and her whole chest ache.

When he’s satisfied that he’s sufficiently stolen her breath, he holds her close, moving in to stand behind her so he can point out all of his favorite constellations that hang in the sky this part of the year. With her hand grasped in his, he meticulously connects the tiny dots of light with her pointer finger, until the blocky shapes begin to emerge in her imagination. He tells her the tales that accompany them, carefully woven and artfully enchanting, voice low in her ear and breath fanning warm across her cheek to rival the coolness from the ocean breeze. She hates to admit it, but she’s absolutely charmed. Not just delighted by the stories themselves, but by the obvious passion he has for the subject.

It’s endearing, and she can’t help but smile as he takes her through one that looks a bit like a crooked cross when joined, sitting along a river of stars he tells her is the ‘Milky Way,’ the center of the galaxy. It’s a wondrous sight to behold on its own, the constellation against a glittering starry backdrop, and acting as home to one of the brightest orbs in the sky -- Deneb, located at the top of the cross. The bottom of the cross is Albireo, she’s told, a single star to the naked eye, but in reality, two that are simply positioned close together -- one gold in color and the other blue.

“I’ve a telescope I’ve yet to unpack in storage. I can...show you sometime, if you’d like.”

Of course he would, that fails to surprise her, but she’s more focused on other things. Like how she can hear the question in his words, the hesitancy in his tone. The careful way he treads around the offer. “I would,” she says, voice soft as she tilts her head back onto his shoulder and tips her face up to his to smile at him.

“Really?”

She likes the way his brows shoot up in surprise, how his dimples wink in his cheeks. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t reply to that, just continues to stare at her with his toothy, crinkle-eyed grin. Emma rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him, though the smile still firmly in place betrays her true feelings on the matter. Eventually she tears her gaze away, nodding back towards the grouping of stars.

“What’s so special about that one?” she wonders.

“It’s a recent favorite of mine.”

That makes her narrow her eyes and purse her lips, brows pinching together in thought. “Why is that?”

“It’s called ‘Cygnus,’” he replies quietly, voice full of affection as he rests his cheek against the side of her head. “‘The Swan.’”

Warmth blooms across her shoulders -- golden and sweet and lighting her up from the inside. He’s such an idiot. An adorable, nerdy, too-wonderful-for-his-own-good _idiot_.

He turns her then, tugs her just a little nearer so her arms wind around his neck and his fit snug around her waist. Her toes bump against the tips of his boots and he smirks at her -- sinful and handsome and irresistible. Then his eyes flicker down to her mouth, but when he starts to lean down, she moves her hand to flick at the end of his nose with thumb and middle finger, shoving him away playfully before he can kiss her.

Their laughter mingles with the sound of the surf crashing against the shore and the cool breeze steals the warmth from her cheeks. She doesn’t mind though, too distracted with running when he gives chase, dancing out of his reach for as long as she can. He’s quicker than she gave him credit for, snagging her around the waist right at the water’s edge and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes while she squeals in mock-protest. He makes a show of pretending to throw her into the surf, only allowing her down when she is breathless from giggling.

He’s warm when he kisses her, soft when she kisses him back.

At the end of the evening, Killian drives her home and walks her to her door. They stand together at the top of the stairs of her porch where he gives her all of those soft looks and sweet kisses that drive her crazy, the ones that make her knees weak and leave her dazed for hours after. He eases her inside with a pleased smile, shutting the door for her, and makes it all the way back to his car before she realizes -- with increasing confusion -- that it’s the second night in a row he hasn’t tried to get in her into a bed, or onto the next available flat surface for that matter.

\-----

She shouldn’t eavesdrop. She _really_ shouldn’t, but it’s hardly her fault that they’ve left the door of the classroom wide open, and at first it hadn’t been anything overtly intrusive. Upon arrival, all Henry and Killian were doing was running through the song her kid had chosen to showcase at the school’s talent show in two weeks.

But then Henry had to open his big fat mouth just as she was about to peek in across the threshold and make her presence known.

“So...you had dinner with my mom.”

Her eyes nearly bug out and she hangs close to the wall instead, endeavoring to remain completely out of sight. Killian takes a long while to answer, long enough that Emma finds herself leaning in even closer to the entrance and straining to hear his response.

“Aye. I did.” His voice is neutral, but carefully so, and she draws her bottom lip between her teeth to gnaw on it.

“Twice,” Henry presses.

This time Killian coughs nervously and she can hear the tell-tale sign of nervous energy in the way he shuffles back and forth from his usual place at the front of the classroom. She’d bet anything he was scratching behind his ear too.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Twice.”

“She’s been smiling a lot the last two days,” her traitorous son says, and she huffs indignantly.

“Has she?”

She can hear the smile in Killian’s voice and she slaps her hands over her face, as if it will keep the embarrassment rising fast and warm in her cheeks at bay.

“She likes cinnamon in her hot chocolate, her favorite flowers are buttercups, she cries when she watches movies about dogs, and her favorite food is Granny’s grilled cheese sandwich. With a side order of onion rings which she doesn’t like to share.”

She supposes he’ll have to figure out what to do without his electronics, after she grounds him for the rest of his life.

“Oh,” Killian says, and then, after a moment, “Henry?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you telling me all of this, lad?”

“Just in case you wanted to know some things about her. Since...you know, you guys are together now.”

She wants to die. Or at the very least melt into the wall and disappear.

“Is that...is that the word that Emma used?” Killian asks, as if her mortification wasn’t bad enough already. “‘ _Together_?’”

It’s easy enough to picture the little crinkle in his nose when he asks and she lightly thumps her head back against the wall in trepidation.

“No, not exactly.”

“Oh.”

“But, I mean, you _are_ , aren’t you? ‘ _Together?_ ’”

The second they get home, she’s teaching Henry the finer points of having some tact. Killian sigh then, pausing a bit while Emma waits for his next answer with baited breath.

“That’s a bit of a loaded question-”

“Well...just do me a favor then,” her kid interrupts.

“That would depend on the favor, Henry.”

“Don’t give up on her, okay? I know she can be stubborn sometimes, but since she’s met you, she’s... _different_. She’s started whistling Disney songs in the morning when she scrambles eggs for breakfast -- and she doesn’t even _like_ Disney -- and she’s always got a goofy smile on her face whenever she watches space documentaries. She’s just really happy. And don’t let her try to tell you otherwise; she’s happier than I’ve seen her in a long time.”

When Killian exhales again, she can feel the weight of Henry’s admonition hanging over him. “Henry, look. I’m...I’m not certain what your mother and I are, but I would like nothing more than to find out. And I want you to know that I can be pretty stubborn too. I _swear_ to you that I will stay for as long as Emma wishes it.” He pauses a beat. A meaningful beat that makes her cross her arms over her middle and cup her elbows in her hands, so overcome by emotion that she has to fight to keep herself together. “And as long as it continues to be alright with you.”

The smile in her son’s voice when he agrees is easy enough to discern, as is the two of them shuffling around to seal the deal with a handshake or a fistbump or whatever it is that guys do when the occasion calls for it. It’s hard to focus her thoughts when her heart is in her throat, making it difficult to breathe, and tears are burning insistently behind her eyes. She sniffles as quietly as she can and reaches up to press the heel of her hands over her eyes in an attempt to stave them and keep them from falling onto her cheeks, accidentally dropping the keys in her hand in the process.

 _Fuck_.

Cover blown. She used to be really good at this espionage stuff. Well, staying hidden when needing to, anyway. She makes a show of bending down to retrieve them, no longer quiet in her movements just outside the doorway so as to signal her arrival. But when she peeks out from the corner of the doorway, eyes meeting Killian’s gaze, he’s got that painfully amused look in his eyes where he just _knows_ that she’d been standing out there this whole time. Listening to them -- the two most important men in her life right now -- having a heart-to-heart, and the blush creeps back into her cheeks.

By his soft smile, he doesn’t seem to mind.

\-----

The next weekend still shows no sign of their godforsaken sex-drought ending, so, full of needy frustration, she decides to take matters into her own hands.

She arrives early for their date, surprising him with a bottle of wine and very little beneath the black trench coat she wears with her matching heels. They click against the wood of his floor when she follows behind him on their way to the kitchen, and gets to work with untying her belt as she goes. When he turns to ask her something, she places her hands on her hips beneath the material, forcing the ends of the coat to spread wide, and reveals a matching lacy black lingerie combo she’d chosen for the evening.

“Thought we could stay in tonight,” she tells him, grinning like a fiend and finding a very keen sense of womanly satisfaction at the way the question dies on his lips and his mouth drops open.

Emma loves how his eyes darken and warm into a deep ocean blue as they take their fill of her. The way his tongue unconsciously darts out to lick his lips, like he can already taste her. She’s especially pleased with how wrecked his soft swear sounds, and how -- when the way the bottle slips from his grasp -- he scrambles to catch it to keep it from shattering on the tile floor.

His cheeks burn pink, the stain reaching all the way up to the tips of his sweet little elf ears and he laughs nervously, setting the wine down and safely away from his trembling hands. Killian moves towards her then, and she grins triumphantly, thinking he means to _finally_ put his hands on her after all this time, but he simply tugs the trench coat back in place with gentle hands, forcing her arms back at her sides, before tying the garment securely with the belt -- _double-knotting it_ for god’s sake.

“I’ll- ah- I’ll order take out,” he smiles, leaning over to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek before leaving her.

She grumbles in annoyance and kicks off her shoes, plopping into the closest chair at his dining table. She props her elbow on the surface to cradle her chin in her hand and the sigh that escapes between her lips is one hundred percent exasperated.

Later, as they sit side-by-side on the floor of his living room -- between the couch and the coffee table -- they pass take-out cartons back and forth, not even bothering with plates. She’s donning a pair of his pajama pants, rolled up several times over at the waist so as not to trip over the length when she walks, and also one of his well-loved t-shirts. She swims in his clothes, always has, but by the gentle smile and the affectionate look in his eyes every time she catches him glancing over at her and her borrowed outfit, he quite enjoys seeing her dressed in his attire.

They snuggle on the couch after, Killian’s hand carding gently through her hair as she tucks her head beneath his jaw and snakes her arm around his waist. She’s full and sleepy (and has already resigned herself to the fact that there will be no sexy times in her immediate future).

“This is nice,” he murmurs, just as her eyes start to droop shut and her mind begins to drift.

She doesn’t say anything in reply, merely hums her agreement before she falls asleep, though she swears she hears his quiet, “Goodnight, Swan,” just before he leans down and kisses the bridge of her nose.

She wakes in his bed in the morning. Not at dawn, but _morning_.

Shit.

A quick glance down shows that her ( _his_ ) clothes are still in tact beneath the covers, much to her disappointment, and a look over her shoulder reveals that his side of the bed is empty. She knows she didn’t sleep alone, though, the pillows askew and blankets wrinkled on his end. Plus, she vaguely remembers the heavy weight of his arm around her waist and the press of his forehead to her shoulder while they slept.

 _Shit_.

She sits up then, scrubbing tiredly over her face and trying not to panic. Trying to ignore the unchangeable fact that the sun is streaming in through the curtains and that the smell of bacon is wafting into his room from the kitchen. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, paying no attention to the paralyzingly huge knot lodged just beneath her breastbone, and kicks back the comforter before swinging her legs off the side of the bed. She sits there for a long moment, breathing in and out in an attempt to regulate the pounding of her heart against her ribcage. In another minute, she’ll figure out how to steel herself to go...face him.

He looks rumpled but relaxed, hair more mussed from sleep rather than her hands, humming softly under his breath while he turns over the strips of greasy pork in the pan. His smile is easy when he sees her, but it’s his eyes that betray his true emotions -- the caution and the nerves. The carefully tamed happiness that makes her chest tighten.

“Hey, there you are. Coffee’s just finished brewing,” he tells her, nodding in the direction of the pot.

She says nothing, leaning her hip in the kitchen doorway and studying him instead. There’s a weird sensation that twists at her gut, a strange _unfurling_ feeling that happens the longer she looks at him. It’s...scary but it’s _not_ and she finds herself crossing the kitchen to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her cheek against his back. An attempt at anchoring herself to something, at calming the rapid staccato rhythm of her heartbeat.

Killian freezes at the touch, clearly surprised by her open affection.

“You have pillow creases on your cheek,” she mutters, dropping a kiss to the back of his shoulder before pulling away to grab a mug from one of his cupboards.

“So do you.” He glances over at her again, smile radiant and reaching all the way to his eyes as he watches her pour herself a cup. “Waffles alright?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, smiling back softly. There is no longer a knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach anymore, just a calm that settles over her and takes up residence in her heart.  “Waffles are perfect.”

\-----

Emma accompanies Killian to his first gig of the summer the fourth weekend in June. He plays at the Rabbit Hole, and while it’s not their first time out together, since they’ve already done that a few times over by now, it _is_ their first time out in public since that little ( _enormous_ ) shift in their relationship, where she’d spent an entire evening at his place. She isn’t nervous, _per se_ , just...restless and jittery about walking into the bar together. Hand in hand. Fingers intertwined like a...a couple or something. Hardly anybody seems to be paying attention, though, so that goes a long way in easing her self-consciousness about the whole thing.

She lingers by the stage after soundcheck, near the seat he’d had reserved for her, and studies the setup. It’s reminiscent of the first time she’d seen Killian play, standing off to the right in dark jeans and a plain black shirt, hair falling over his brow as his fingers had expertly moved across the strings. It drudges up the memories of the other times she’d come to the Rabbit Hole to watch him, and the one time in particular when he’d come over to introduce himself and shamelessly flirt with her. She supposes it had worked out alright since she had shamelessly flirted back.

It makes her smile to think about, and she is forced to admit that he was right. That really _was_ a good night. Even if it feels like a lifetime ago. She’s sure it’s the nostalgia that pushes her to do it, that makes her stroke her hand over the guitar he’d set up on the stand before he’d gone off to mingle with the crowd beginning to trickle in. It’s sentimentality that makes her take the guitar in hand and settle down on the edge of the stage with it, laying the instrument across her lap and making sure the dip of the guitar rests solidly on her leg the way she’s seen Killian and Henry do it.

It’s an acoustic type, she knows only because Henry bought the same one, but whatever that entails? Well, her guess is as good as any since she knows nothing about music or the guitar it self. She positions herself in the same way that she remembers Killian teaching Henry to do, curling her left arm underneath the neck of the it and placing her fingers on the strings. She drapes her right arm across the dip at the top and allows her hand fall to the strings stretched across the sound hole. Her thumb runs lightly across all of them and her smile curves up when she manages to catch each one without breaking a note.

The feeling is foreign to her, and she wonders what it must be like for him -- to know how to use it, to feel the music in her fingertips and make it look effortless the way he does. He often gets this far away yet concentrated look in his eyes, like he’s so submersed, actually living _in_ it, weaving in and out of the melodies he creates and the song he builds.

She loves watching him like that. Loves even more how he glances up at her from beneath his lashes mid-strumming, a look meant to be more enticing than shy, the slow curving of his lips in that smile that feels like is only for her. It puts butterflies in her stomach and makes her knees weak because he sort of becomes this completely different person, a little bit of that bad boy persona, the confidence without being pretentious. It’s sexy as hell, if you ask her, and-

There’s a low, appreciative whistle from behind that makes her turn her head, and she smiles sheepishly when she sees Killian there, studying her with his brow quirked. His eyes are gleaming, amused and delighted all at once.

“Looking for any groupies?” he comments, walking towards her and sliding in behind the neck of the guitar to sit close beside her. His arm finds its way around her, hand resting against her hip as he leans in and drops a kiss to her cheek before letting his mouth graze against her ear. “You know, I have to admit, you look quite sexy with a guitar.”

“You might be slightly biased.”

“ _Might_ being the key word and all, but mostly no. I have eyes, Swan, and you make a rather pleasant image in their expert opinion.”

She merely smiles as she glances down again and drags her thumb back across the strings so the notes ring out around them.

“I didn’t realize you were interested in learning, love. If you’re in need of an instructor to teach you to play, I might know a guy,” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“Where _did_ you learn how to play?” she wonders.

The question appears to have caught him off-guard, if the way his breath catches and how still he goes is any indication. It takes him a moment to gather himself, even longer to gather his thoughts, and when he reaches up to scratch behind his ear, his face is suddenly so heavy with emotion, she’s knows she’s touched a nerve. She almost apologizes, almost tells him that it’s okay, that she didn’t mean to intrude or stick her nose in where it doesn’t belong, but he interrupts her, lifting his gaze to hang onto hers.

“My brother, Liam.”

“ _Brother?_ ” Her eyes go wide with shock. “I didn’t know you have a brother-”

“‘Had,’” he corrects. “He passed away a long time ago.”

“Oh.” She stops short, whole demeanor shifting with the mood. “Killian, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“No, no,” he cuts her off. “It’s alright. Like I said, it’s been a long time. And you didn’t know.”

She means to say something, but he interrupts her again.

“He was older than me. After our mother passed away, Liam became...the head of the household. He was everything to me. He was all I had. We played to pass the time. It was a cheap form of entertainment and we both had a knack for it.”

“Your dad wasn’t in the picture?”

His smile is tight around the corners, and he presses his lips together before moistening them with his tongue. “He abandoned us. After Mum died.”

“What happened?” she asks gently.

“It’s a long story,” he says. “Too long for now.”

She watches him, feels her chest ache for the sadness that still ghosts around his eyes. It’s very apparent that Liam was his hero, the tone in his voice alone is enough of a giveaway. She moves her hand off the neck of the guitar, resting it lightly on his leg then leaning forward to press her lips to his cheek. “Well, if you ever feel like telling it. I would gladly listen.”

The easy affection startles him for a moment and he gives her curious look, eyes searching hers for a long time. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” she replies, with a gentle curving of lips. “What about your mom? And Liam?”

“Mum died from cancer,” he tells her, ducking his head and averting his gaze. It doesn’t keep the pain from his face and it doesn’t keep the ache from her heart.

“Killian-”

He shakes his head, hand soothing up her back. “It was inevitable. As for Liam, sailing accident.”

It’s all he says, all he seems willing to say.

“Did he teach you how to sail too?” she smiles, voice teasing as she attempts to coax another smile from him. She feels terrible for souring his mood, just hours before he has to go on.

“It’s been a long time, but yes, I imagine I still know my way around a ship.”

“Don’t tell Henry,” she laughs, the sound light and soft in the space they share as she leans towards him and nudges her shoulder with his. “Don’t give him any ideas.”

“We could go if you really wanted to. The three of us.” There’s a soft hopeful little look in his eyes that weighs heavily on her chest.

“Wait, seriously?”

“Aye. Rent a vessel, pack some refreshments, a couple blankets, watch the sun set and the stars come out. I could show you how to tie some knots.” He smiles at her then, just a tiny twinkle of mischief sparking in his eyes and replacing the melancholy.

Emma glances up at him again, pleased by it. She lifts her brow and leans in close as if to share a secret with him. “I know a better way you could put those hands to use.”

He chuckles at her teasing, swooping in to peck at her lips before detouring a little further down and blowing a raspberry against her neck. It makes her squirm and wiggle against his hold, her laugh ringing out lightly. “I do, indeed. But, since none of those things would be considered appropriate in public, let me show you how to play a few chords instead.”

She shakes her head at him, elbowing him in the ribs before she allows him to adjust her fingers on the neck of the guitar.

\-----

She really needs to stop eavesdropping. But it is absolutely _not_ her fault that when she brings Killian takeout from Granny’s for lunch in the middle of the work week, the door is slightly ajar and _David --_ Mary Margaret’s husband and her Deputy, of all people -- is standing in front of Killian in his power stance. She knows David means to be intimidating with his arms crossed over chest, his feet shoulder’s width apart, and a very stern look on his face, but Killian hardly looks fazed.

Though she thinks that David must have been giving Killian his overprotective ‘Dad’ speech because the words that come out of Killian’s mouth as she peeks into the room, make her cheeks flush warm and her ears heat as well, despite the giddy little flip of her stomach.

“Whatever we become...it’s up to her as much as me.”

(She smacks David upside the head when she walks by his desk at the station later, ignoring his whine of protest and especially ignoring the look he gives her.)

\----- 

They sit staring at the horizon on a quiet strip of concrete dock behind the shipyard, right on the water’s edge, a single scoop each of rum raisin and chocolate brownie in a cone shared between them. Emma is perched on a bright yellow, low lying barrier with Killian’s relaxed and slightly bent legs resting on either side of her while he straddles it to sit facing her side.

“What are we doing out here?” she wonders, watching the water lap at the jetty marking the division of the Storybrooke harbor and the open waters of the Atlantic.

“Eating ice cream. Having a quiet moment. Watching the horizon.”

“What’s it doing?”

“Nothing,” he chuckles. “I just thought you might enjoy it. I know the sea calms you and I know you’ve had a busy week at work.”

“It calms you too,” she points out.

“Don’t try to change the subject, I know your game, Swan.” He holds out the cone for her, waiting for her to have a lick before he bites in on the other side.

Her gaze flickers to the tattoo on his wrist, as it has several times already in the past ten minutes. It’s a bleeding heart with a dagger through it, and there’s a name etched across it -- _Milah_. She hasn’t been able to stop looking at it all day. It’s not like she’s never seen it, but he’s just never talked about it before, and she doesn’t know why all of a sudden she wants to _know_ , but she does.

“Can I ask you a question?” she wonders.

“You just did,” he smiles, cheekily.

She elbows him in the stomach, smirking at his quiet groan of protest and takes a hearty bite of rum raisin ice cream for good measure.

“Who’s Milah? In the tattoo?” she wonders, when she’s finished swallowing and works at licking the rest of the ice cream from her lips.

“Someone from long ago,” he replies, hand reaching up so his thumb can swipe at the corner of her mouth where she missed a spot.

His tone does nothing to betray his innermost thoughts. “She must have been really important if you got a tattoo of her.”

He smiles at her insistence, teasing and soft. “Are you jealous, love? Well, you’ve nothing to worry about, as you’re the only woman in my life now. I mean, aside from Granny, since she does provide me with meals on the regular. And Ingrid. Can’t forget about her ice cream. And then there’s also- _oof!_ ”

He cuts off with another elbow to the ribs, making him chuckle as he gives her a sticky kiss to the cheek then hands off the cone to her to finish off the rest of the chocolate brownie. She studies him rather than eats, the look on her face expectant.

Their gazes hold for a long time, Killian’s eyes searching hers until finally, he exhales on heavy breath. “I met her a few years after Liam died. We’d both been lost...looking for something to fill the void. She had a thirst for adventure, and I had a thirst for her smile.”

Killian glances away, sad smile pulling up the corners of his mouth as he remembers and Emma absentmindedly reaches out to grip his hand.

“I liked her wit and her warmth. Her vibrancy. She was my first love, in the romantic sense, at least.”

It makes her smile affectionately, to think of a younger Killian, attempting to find his way around a relationship. “It sounds like she helped you a lot.”

“Aye, that she did.”

“Why did you guys-”

“Break-up? We didn’t. She died.” His lips purse, brow knitting as he looks down at their clasped hands. He squeezes lightly. “In a car accident.”

It makes her ache, to think of a younger Killian, losing so much at the cruel hands of fate. She is staggered, not so much by the amount of tragedy in his life, but how soft he still is as a person, how kind and compassionate and caring.

“Killian-”

“I know what you’re thinking, and I swear it’s okay,” he reassures her. “I’ve just been...rather unfortunate, I suppose. Although...” He trails off, turning his hand beneath hers and stroking his thumb over the flower tattoo on her wrist. “I think my luck is turning around.”

She swallows against the lump in her throat. “What do you mean?”

He meets her eyes one more, gives her a look so open and vulnerable it knocks her off-balance. “I never thought I’d be capable of letting go of my first love...that is, until I met you.”

If his expression turns her world upside down, his words abruptly spin it a few times over before righting it back into place. The confession makes her squeeze the cone so hard it breaks in several places and ice cream spills into her hand, dripping over her jeans and the concrete in a brown, syrupy mess. She swears lightly under her breath but Killian merely chuckles, taking the napkins from his back pocket and passing a few off to her while they both clean her up together.

“Now,” he starts, interrupting her thoughts and keeping things light. “I’ve told you quite a few stories already, will you tell me one?”

It’s a simple request, and if it eases away from the topic of moving on from past loves, Emma’s all for it.

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, how about something easy? Like about that tattoo?” She feels him tuck her hair behind her ear, the backs of his fingers caressing her neck and his thumb grazing against the line of her jaw.

She wouldn’t necessarily call that easy, so she simply shrugs. “We all have our scars.”

“Aye, that we do. Some healed more than others.”

Eventually she tells him about her parents. Or lack thereof. How she’d been orphaned as a child, abandoned on the side of the road. How she’d gone through foster care, never really having a home or family. She tells him about Neal, about what he’d done -- stolen her innocence in every sense of the word, tricked her, lied to her, sent her to prison for a crime she didn’t commit. She tells him about Henry, how she’d given birth to him shackled to a hospital bed and how she’d almost given him up. Until she’d held him in her arms and decided that his best chance was with her. She tells him how she’d worked her ass off to turn her life around, how she’d become a bail bonds person, how she’d ended up in Storybrooke and how she’d become the town Sheriff.

He kisses her when she’s done, long and sweet and full of understanding, then holds her for a while after.

He’s right, she thinks. They both have their scars, some healed more than others, but now a few more healed together.

_Fin_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY HERE! The very last part of this fic that actually moves the story forward. The other three parts left in this verse will be vignettes not directly related to plot. :) Thank you all so much from the bottom of my heart for reading this and sticking with me. It's been (again), such a labor of love and I've had the very best time exploring Emma and Killian's relationship in this world. Xx 
> 
> P.S. This is where we hit the M rating :D

“Killian slept over last night,” she blurts out. She doesn’t know why she says it. It just...happens.

“That’s good,” Mary Margaret replies.

Her friend seems to have entirely missed the point and it makes Emma frown. “He made us dinner,” she continues, unable to keep the agitation from her voice.

Mary Margaret chews slowly, watching Emma with patient eyes.

“ _In my house_!” Emma tells her in a whisper hiss, as if completely offended by the notion.

She sets her utensils down, head canting to the side. “Really?”

“I _know_! And he played video games with Henry!”

“ _No!_ ” Mary Margaret gasps, and that is more along the lines of the type of response Emma was hoping for to begin with.

“ _Right_? Helped him with his homework!”

“How dare he.” She concurs, saying it completely straight-faced.

“Kissed me goodnight and went straight to bed!”

“Unacceptable!”

“ _On the couch!”_

Mary Margaret slams her hand down on the table. “ _The nerve_! How dare he be completely sweet and wonderful and respectful! He should be _ashamed_!”

“That’s what I-” Emma cuts off at the other woman’s dancing eyes and teasing smirk. “Oh. You were joking.”

“Do you know how ridiculous you sound?” Ruby asks her on her next pass, pausing briefly to roll her eyes and pour them each a coffee refill.

Emma grumbles, just a little aggravated noise in the back of her throat before she scrunches her nose and drops her forehead to her arm where it rests on the table. “We haven’t had sex in months.”

“What?” Mary Margaret abruptly chokes on her drink.

“Nearing two,” she mutters, holding up her index and middle finger to reiterate her point.

“Wait, seriously?” Ruby promptly sits down, forcing Mary Margaret to scoot over in the booth to give her space.

“ _Yes_ ,” Emma snaps once more, another frustrated sigh escaping between her lips as she lifts her head to eye them both. “I don’t know _why_. I mean, he isn’t any less affectionate, if anything, he’s gotten _more_ affectionate. He’s always around, more than before since we...you know, go out in public now and do...stuff.”

Mary Margaret says nothing, but Emma doesn’t miss the way her lips purse or how she seems to be working something out in her mind.

“He’ll come over and he and Henry will mess around on their guitars for hours. We trade off dinners at each other’s places, do the whole...” She waves her hand as she searches for the correct turn of phrase. “What does Ruby say? ‘Netflix and chill’ thing and just chill -- _actually_ _chill_!”

“Yes,” Ruby agrees, chin propped in her hand and voice sounding surprisingly wistful. “Amazing.”

Emma sighs. “His restraint is...something to be admired, I guess.”

“More like his patience,” Mary Margaret chimes in.

“Not helping,” Emma turns a glaring look on her. “Whose side are you on?”

“Sorry, continue.”

“We sat together at Henry’s school talent show, and he...you should have seen him. He looked so _proud_ , he couldn’t stop beaming and cheering-”

Mary Margaret grins. “How cute!”

“He took us out for ice cream after!”

“Like I said, ‘ _how cute!_ ’”

Emma gives up, defeatedly slouching down in the booth to rest her head against the back of it, and propping her feet up between the other women.

Ruby points a finger at her. “You guys took Henry sailing, didn’t you?” she asks.

“Yeah, last weekend- wait, how did you know?”

Ruby shrugs. “Leroy.”

“Of course.”

“It’s a small town, the only thing that gets anybody through the day-to-day is the gossip.”

“We’re hardly gossip material,” Emma counters.

“Please, the prickly, skittish town Sheriff and the hottie rockstar teacher from England? Definitely gossip material.”

“Wait a second, back up. Skittish?” She pauses a beat. “ _Prickly_? What else are people saying about me?”

“A lot of things, you _hussy_ ,” Mary Margaret teases, taking another sip of her coffee before she sighs and sets it down. “What’s the real problem here, Emma?”

“ _We haven’t-_ ” she cuts off mid-explosion, remembering that she would rather not broadcast the current status of her sex life to everyone within earshot. Especially with Granny in the kitchen -- who has got some freakishly wolf-like hearing -- because the very last thing she needs right now, is another person meddling and telling her to let Killian ‘make an honest woman’ out of her or something. “ _We haven’t had sex in months,_ ” she speaks as lowly as she can without compromising the bite in her tone.

“You said that already, Emma,” Ruby points out.

“Is this _really_ just about sex?” Mary Margaret says at the same time.

She opens her mouth as if to speak, then abruptly closes it to think about that, eyes steadily flickering back and forth between her friends. “What else would it be about?”

This time it’s Ruby that rolls her eyes. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Killian _likes_ likes you too?”

“So? He can _like_ like me and still want to sleep with me!”

Mary Margaret huffs exasperatedly. “ _Oh, Emma, honestly-_ ”

“ _What_?”

“Emma. You are completely missing two things.”

“She’s got a point,” Ruby nods.

“What? What two things?”

“The way he looks at you, for one,” Ruby tells her.

Mary Margaret follows suit. “And the fact that he wants _more_ than just the sex, Emma. He wants _you-_ ”

Ruby interrupts to add, “And _Henry-_ ”

“And a real life, all-in, adult _relationship._ ” Mary Margaret continues smoothly.

“And we think, if you’re honest with yourself, you want one too.” It’s Ruby who gets the last word in, though it doesn’t matter, Emma is already in a daze from trying to follow their back and forth conversation to begin with.

Shit.

 _Well shit_.

She has little to say to that, stewing in her seat and tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling instead of at the two of them. Scratch that, there are a ton of things she wants to say, they all just happen to get stuck in her throat. And for the record, she really hates when they’re both right.

\-----

A rogue storm hits Storybrooke that weekend, complete with thunder and lightning and torrential downpours. Emma finds it fitting, though, because it matches her tumultuous mood. She’s been very sulky the last few days, since that conversation with her friends at breakfast. Restless. Brooding.

They had valid points, of course, the truth bombs they’d dropped on her did actually hold some weight. _A lot_ of weight if she’s going to be honest. But she’s running scared again, or perhaps, she’s never stopped.

And it’s not that she’s afraid Killian’s going to hurt her, it’s that he _isn’t_.

She’s scared because the truth of the matter is that they both want the same thing: a future. _Together._ But the thing about that, is that the minute she stops running, the minute she takes that final leap with him -- tearing down her walls and removing that armor she’s worn for so long, handing over her heart -- that future begins.

So she hasn’t, choosing instead to remain miserably stagnant. Not quite avoiding him but declining his calls and taking hours to reply to his texts. Making sure to keep herself busy between extra shifts at the station and unnaturally long patrol hours.

It’s been terrible of her, she knows, a completely shitty thing to do to him when he has been nothing but patient and understanding. Kind and constant. Guilt weighs heavily on her conscience, not to mention her heart, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, she’s had to deal with Henry’s glaring looks and silent treatment the last few days, after a particularly bad argument earlier in the week.

He’d stormed into their house, demanding to know what she’d done to make Killian ‘so sad and mopey,’ and as if those words alone weren’t enough to twist the knife she’d already had in her gut all week, Henry attempting to talk some sense into her certainly was.

“Mom, not every guy’s like my dad! Not every guy’s just gonna leave you!”

“Henry-”

“This guy’s not that guy! He wants to be with you, _us_! He wants us to be his home-”

“Henry-”

“Don’t ‘ _Henry_ ’ me, Mom!”

“Look, it’s like a big step, kid! We got a good thing going, just the two of us-”

“And we’d still have a good thing if it was just the _three_ of us!”

One step forward, three steps back -- that’s what it is with her. Always has been, probably always will be.

\-----

She decides to go for a walk to clear her head at the first break in the rain, slipping into her boots and her leather jacket, not even bothering with an umbrella. She doesn’t intend to be out that long, especially because the clouds that roll in are forebodingly dark and she knows that when it starts to rain again, it’s going to be vicious. The plan she’s got in mind consists of walking around the block a few times, maybe going into town or strolling along the harbor, just to get out of the house and possibly soothe some of her frazzled nerves.

Her feet, on the other hand, appear to have their own idea of where they’d prefer to go.

Twenty minutes later -- ten minutes too long because it really started coming down the last few blocks -- she finds herself standing outside of Killian’s apartment, soaked through to the bone and banging noisily on his door. She’s worked herself up into quite a state too, all of her emotions that have been building the past week finally coming to a head on the way over.

The door swings open and two things happen at once: her heart skips a beat at the sight of him and irritation licks up her spine.

His brows shoot up into his hairline, eyes wide, and surprise is written all over his face. “ _Swan_.” Her name is a breathy whisper on his lips.

Clearly she’d been the very last person he was expecting to see. She imagines she makes quite the picture, though, with her clothes clinging to her, her hair plastered to her forehead, and water dripping down her face. His surprise shifts into relief, and that soon fades into uncertainty, as if he’s already anticipating the worst -- it stings a little, but she doesn’t blame him -- and then it turns into confusion.

“Did you-” He glances up at the sky then back at her, taking in her haggard state once more before swearing colorfully. “Did you _walk_ all the way over here?”

“We need to talk,” she replies, completely ignoring his question.

“ _Have you lost your mind?_ ” He swears again, ignoring her right back. “It’s storming! Are you-”

“Did you stop having sex with me so you could date me?” she blurts out, cutting him off with her raised voice, attempting to be heard over the noise of the rainfall. Her cheeks flame hot at that, because of all the things she’d been wanting to articulate and hoping to say, that had been at the bottom of the list, but it just so happened to be at the forefront of her mind and the first thought that had slipped from her mouth.

“What?” he blinks at her, bewildered.

She’s worked it out a long time ago -- well, with Mary Margaret and Ruby’s help -- and she knows the answer already, but she wants to hear it from him.

“ _Oh_ ,” she huffs indignantly, her shame fueling her temper as she pokes him in the chest with her finger. “Don’t play that game with me. You heard me. Did you or did you not stop having sex with me so you could date me?”

He has a sailor’s mouth today, cursing once more as his hand snakes out to grasp her arm. She knows his intent is to pull her inside the warmth of his apartment, but she wrenches out of his hold and stubbornly stays put directly on his welcome mat.

“Emma, what are you doing? Will you get in here? You’re going to catch a bloody cold!”

She crosses her arms over her chest instead.

He sighs then, an exasperated noise that echoes around them. His hand scrubs over his face then he agitatedly runs it through his hair. “Swan, will you come inside? _Please?_ ”

It’s the concern in his tone that gets her, the look on his face as he pleads with her that makes her instantly deflate. Even more guilt eats away at her. She says nothing as she continues to stare at him, reluctantly crossing the threshold when he steps back from the doorway to give her space to enter.

He gestures towards his room. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up? You can borrow some of my clothes. I’ll go...warm up some soup or make hot chocolate or something.”

She has to bite her tongue on the way ‘ _with cinnamon_ ’ almost slips out, opting instead to continue her silence as he moves away from her. She doesn’t miss the way he exhales on a heavy breath, nor the way he holds his shoulders -- a little tired, a little defeated.

She feels sick to her stomach as she trudges down the hallway. She knows she’s dripping everywhere and feels awful about it -- among a slew of other things to feel horrible about -- so she makes quick work of his closet, grabbing a large fluffy towel and draping it around herself while she pads across the room to raid his dresser. She ends up stealing her favorite pair of gray sweats from the second drawer, then goes in search of his burgundy hoodie next, the one with the little anchor printed on the front over the left breast. But when she goes to open the top drawer, her eyes are instead drawn to a photo strip leaning against the constellation mug Henry had given him at the end of the school year.

It’s of the three of them -- her, Henry and Killian -- taken inside the photo booth at the movie theaters before they had gone to watch a double feature of Disney’s animated _Peter Pan_ and the live action version of _Hook_ one Friday night. She removes the picture collage from its spot with trembling fingers, her heart squeezing sweetly in her chest at the sight of the them -- smiling, carefree, _happy_.

They’d been right, all the people in her life that had called her an idiot at one point or another, for not allowing Killian in. She _is_ an idiot, because all this time, he’s pushed his own feelings and needs aside, and has simply been waiting for her to get to where she needed to be emotionally so that she could finally catch up to him.

_He wants to be with you,_ **_us_ ** _! He wants us to be his home._

She places the photo carefully back against the mug and has to blink back the burning sensation behind her eyes when a swell of emotion in her heart threatens to overwhelm her. She gingerly pulls the sweater from the drawer, casts one last look at the proof of the little unit they’ve built over the last few months, and makes her way towards his bathroom to dry off and change.

She feels so stupid for coming out here in the first place, for doing all those things that had eventually led to this. It definitely hasn’t gone how she’d been expecting it to, not that she even _knew_ what she was expecting to begin with.

Killian comes up behind her while she’s absentmindedly rubbing a towel over her hair, interrupting her brooding and taking the cloth from her hands so he can help her with the task. She watches him quietly through the mirror, studying his face -- the chiseled jaw and the sweep of his cheekbones and scar on his cheek. The way his hair falls boyishly over his brow. He needs a haircut, and judging by the darkness around his jaw, he’s in need of a shave too.

It takes her a minute, but when she finally notices, she feels sick to her stomach: he has shadows under his eyes, bruises that make her heart ache, worsened only by the exhaustion so evident on his face now that she’s paying attention.

He hasn’t been sleeping, has probably been as restless as she has, but for an entirely different reason.

(God, she’s so stupid.)

Their eyes meet once in the mirror and -- _oh_ \-- she feels the knots in her stomach start to loosen. He has that way about him, he always has. Anchoring her. Steadying her. Making her feel safe and...cherished. She realizes that it had never been about the sex, just as Mary Margaret had said. It has always been about something more.

“You never answered my question,” she says softly.

“I’ll answer it later when I’m through being cross with you.”

She bites at her bottom lip, drawing it between her teeth and chewing at it. Her heart rate picks up a little, nerves and butterflies making it pound steadily against her ribcage. “Killian?”

He sighs, and he sounds as tired as he looks. “What, Swan?”

She hates that she put that tone in his voice, hates that she’s caused him so much unease and kept him so much at arm’s length. That she hurt him the way that she did. And despite all of that, he’s still here, standing at her back, drying her hair, making her soup (or hot chocolate or something).

Taking care of her.

Treasuring her.

And more. Always _more_.

“You...” She sighs when the words get stuck in her throat, but she is determined to ask, even more determined to hear his answer. He deserves at least that. She expels a deep breath to ease her nerves. “You really love me, don’t you?”

There is no hesitation when he replies, just a mildly biting irritation to his voice. “ _Of course_ I love you, Swan. I can't believe you have to bloody ask. I’ve loved you since-” He abruptly cuts off, eyes widening in shock as he realizes what he’s just said. What he’s confessed. “ _Shit_ ,” he swears softly, towel stilling in her hair before slowly lowering. He takes his hand over his face again and shakes his head when their gazes lock through the mirrors. “Emma, I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

She interrupts him with the own shake of her head, tears abruptly brimming in her eyes again as she promptly turns and all but pounces on him. She kisses him hard, fingers gripping tight against his shirt while she crushes her mouth to his and pours herself into the kiss -- everything she’s said and more importantly, everything she _hasn’t_ said. The feelings that have always been there, simmering just below the surface and diligently ignored, now dredged up and exposed without anywhere to hide in the wake of his honesty.

It’s scary, but it’s freeing, and while the emotions continue to swirl in a staggeringly overwhelming mess inside of her, all she can do is answer him back with the fervent movement of her mouth and the press of her body to his.

The force of her momentum had propelled them backwards, right into the wall, Killian’s back hitting solidly against it with a heavy thud that makes the breath whoosh out of him. He grunts and she swallows his curse, taking the opportunity to sweep her tongue into his open mouth, kissing him deeper with a simple angling of her head.

His hands grip her hips, hard enough to bruise, but she doesn’t care. Not even when his arms come around her crushingly and his fingertips drag desperately across the span of her back. It’s only when her head starts spinning and her lungs feel like they’re burning from lack of oxygen does she break apart from him. She lingers in his space though, resting her forehead against his in that familiar way they always do when they can’t get enough of each other, noses bumping affectionately as if unable to stand being without even the simplest of contact.

“Swan,” he starts, and then, “ _Emma._ ” It sounds a little more wrecked that way, but she finds that she doesn’t mind. He reaches up, hands tenderly cupping her face. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” she says. “It’s fine, it’s alright.”

He kisses her instead of replying, mouth hot and hungry, just on the side of rough. Demanding. She pulls away again, needing to speak to him about something important, but he keeps on kissing her, pecking her lips between each word and nearly distracting her.

“It’s fine because...because I think I might-” she shakes her head again as she struggles through her own confession, the emotions in her chest rising, filling her to the brim and making her feel near to bursting. “I _know_ that I lo-”

He doesn’t let her finish, chasing off the words with another kiss. A searing, breath-stealing, heart-melting kiss, and it dawns on her that maybe he’s just as scared. Just as hopeful.

She lets him lead for once, arms locking around his neck and legs anchoring over his hips when he stoops low and hoists her up into his arms. It’s a better angle to kiss him at anyway, her hand reaching around to cup his check, his scruff tickling at her fingers.

She knows immediately what he’s about, the weeks they’ve spent dancing around each other, around this very thing, have been building and building to this -- this physical intimacy with a newfound emotional intimacy.

They manage the feat of getting out of the bathroom without breaking contact, and he carts her all the way to the foot of the bed. He sets her down, hands immediately sliding beneath her borrowed hoodie to tug it up and off. She’s wearing not a stitch beneath and her nipples tighten with her arousal and the cool air. The shiver that wracks her body is involuntary, and his hands stroke up and down her arms as he steps closer and kisses her again. If he means to warm her, he’s off to a great start.

Emma pulls at his own clothes, hands restless beneath his shirt and against the warmth of his skin, but he brushes them away, instead lifting both to his mouth and kissing each palm in turn. His eyes say everything he won’t, silently asking her to slow down. He wants to take his time, to unravel and draw out their pleasure. To have her at the pace he sees fit. To cherish, not just her, but this love between them.

It’s difficult to argue when the rest of her feels so light and warm. It’s even harder to protest when his hands sear a path up her stomach and he gently takes her breasts in hand, thumbs rubbing slow circles around the sensitive peaks. Her body jerks at the rush of pleasure that floods her system, a low moan rumbling from the back of her throat as she draws his head down so she can fit her lips against his.

He loves the noises she makes, always has, so it’s no surprise when he repeats the gesture to draw it from her again. Heat moves south, particularly when he’s a little rougher this time, when the pressure is a little harder, pooling deliciously low in her belly. The action causes her to gasp, to arch further into his touch even as her knees go weak and threaten to buckle beneath her.

The last thing she feels before he pulls away, is his smile against her lips. He lowers then, bending down to kneel on the floor as his hands and mouth leave a path of kisses down her body -- along her jaw, over her neck, between her breasts. His nips lightly at her ribs and the spot just below her navel before soothing the ache with his tongue and lifting his gaze to hers.

It steals her breath again, his unwavering eyes and the emotions in them at echo her own. She feels the breath back up into her lungs again when he leans forward to place a soft kiss to her hip. Her fingers card gently through his hair as he rests his forehead against her, and she finds the gesture so tender, so reverent, it’s a wonder that she simply doesn’t implode.

“ _Killian._ ” It’s a breathless whisper -- a plea, a promise -- one that encourages him into action.

His fingers hook into the waistband of her sweats and he begins easing the material down past her knees and calves until it pools at her feet. He offers her his hand, helping her step out of each pant leg before nudging her to sit on the bed. She starts to protest when he eases her onto her back -- he’s still got too many clothes on for her liking -- but he shushes her.

“Let me, Swan,” he implores. “Just let me.”

He’s always asked for so little, that it’s hard for her to say no. Especially when he says it in just that way and he’s already nibbling on her ankle. Desire swoops fiercely through her veins, fanning out and warming her from the inside. She aches when she looks at him, and she’s not sure if it’s from need or because it’s _him_ and _them_ and _this._

Her breathing starts to pick up as he works his way down her leg, kneeling once more at her feet. He nudges one of her legs over his shoulder, and lifts the other up and encourages her to bend at the knee so it rests against the bed as he presses down and bare her to him -- wide and exposed and his for the taking.

“Watch,” he tells her. “I want you to watch.”

She is helpless to do anything but, gasping when his tongue touches her, moving upwards as he licks her in one long stripe, all the way up before circling around her clit. Her breath puffs out brokenly and she wants nothing more than to lay back and close her eyes and feel everything he’s giving her because it’s been forever and they haven’t done this in so long and it feels good. This feels _so good_. Perhaps even better now with their feelings on the table, laid out and on display. Everything amplified to overwhelming amounts. Passion burning brighter, desire burning hotter.

He _loves_ her.

She loves him _back_.

And it makes all the difference in the world.

She watches, just as he’s asked, her gaze steady on his as he works her up with his tongue and brings her back down, over and over until she can’t stand it and she’s damn near close to begging him. She has a sneaking suspicion that it’s exactly what he wants, but then all thoughts drift from her mind when she feels him press a finger into her.

Emma groans unashamedly, her hips jumping when he pulls back out and pushes back in with two. He curls them on the third thrust and on the fourth, rubbing deliciously over that spot that makes her see stars around her vision. Then his mouth closes around her clit, sucking gently as he continues to pump his fingers, and she can feel her walls start to flutter around him, legs and stomach shaking while she races towards that golden-tipped peak. He can feel how close she is too, if the way he hums appreciatively around that little bundle of nerves is anything to go by.

 _Fuck_.

She climbs up and up, higher and higher until she can’t stand it anymore, eyes closing and head falling back onto the bed as her back arches off the mattress and she comes on soft, drawn out cry. She moans again when he brings her down gently. But he doesn’t stop there, working her through it, wanting her to go even higher. He switches places with tongue and fingers, thumb rubbing insistent, gentle circles over her while he dips his tongue into her and she can’t help but rock against his face.

“That’s it, darling, just like that.”

She comes again, body bowed tight, a wordless cry spilling from her lips. This time, he does pull away, allowing her to drift gently back down on her own. Her body feels weightless, her limbs boneless, and when her eyes flutter open, she watches him pull the t-shirt off from his back in that way that makes her her smile. (That makes her mouth water and her desire kick up another few notches.)

“I’ve missed you, Swan,” he tells her, undoing the button his jeans and easing the zipper open. “I’ve missed this...having you this way.”

“You could have. Why didn’t you?” she asks, well, more like sighs.

“Because I wanted more,” he replies. “I wanted it to mean something.”

“The sex?”

He shakes his head, leaning over her and tapping her hip to get her to move up the bed. “No. _Us_.” He puts a knee on the matress, then the other, crawling up to settle between the cradle of her thighs, lowering his head to kiss along her collarbone. His scruff tickles as he moves lower, peppering kisses along her skin until he can take a nipple into his mouth. He sucks gently, teeth grazing across the sensitive peak and sending her body into overdrive as she starts to shift restlessly beneath him again.

“ _Killian._ ” He’s driving her crazy, between his reverent words and the pleasure he can pull from her.

He smiles, she can feel it against her skin, and his reply is to slip inside her, pushing all the way to the hilt and making them both groan. _God_. She’s definitely missed this. “I missed you too, you know.”

“You did?” His voice is full of wonder, enough to make her heart ache again, and then he starts to move -- slow, restless, eager little thrusts -- circling his hips at the end and making her fingers tighten on the sheets. “ _Emma._ ” _Emma, Emma, Emma_. She doesn’t hear the chant out loud but she’s aware of it all the same.

She rocks up into him, hands leaving the bed to grip at him, to claw at his shoulders, his back, gripping at his hip with one hand and urging him on -- faster, harder, _more_.

It’s been too long.

She wants him too much.

“Yeah,” she breathes, “I did.”

He loves her in the rain -- when it’s storming and raging outside -- the sound tinkering against the window and falling on the rooftop. If her brain weren’t so full of him, if her heart weren’t so crowded with him, she might be able to find the significance in that. She might just try to later, when all is said and done.

He pushes and she pulls, as they always do, and they work each other up higher and higher, chasing after their pleasure, until she’s teetering on the edge and he right beside her. It’s she that falls first, his gaze holding hers and his hand between her legs while he continues to fill her up, over and over.

It feels like everything, and then it feels like _more_ as she goes careening over into a starlight oblivion and he follows after her.

(As he always has and he always will.)

\-----

“Did you tell me you love me so that I’d have sex with you?”

She laughs at his question, thumping at his shoulder with her fist before covering her face with her hand. “Technically, you cut me off before I could say it.”

“Did I?”

Emma nods against his chest, where’s she laid her head in the aftermath of their lovemaking, then shifts up onto her elbow so she can stare down at him. She traces her fingers over his bottom lip, a quiet smile tugging up the corners of her mouth. “Afraid so.”

“Apologies, love, that was quite rude of me. Please, do continue your thoughts.”

“Well, if you must know,” she mimics his accent, drawing another laugh from him and an affectionate swat to her behind from where his arm is curled around her. “I said it because I do.”

“Except,” he interjects, nose scrunching up adorably. “Technically you didn't say it yet.” The look he gives her is very expectant, eyes dancing with mirth -- with affection and tenderness and _love_ \-- dimples winking in his cheeks.

She giggles at that. “If you would stop interrupting I might get around to it!”

“Get on with it then, sheesh. Can’t you see me over here, my lips are sealed! They’re-”

“I love you, Killian.”

It’s the quietness of her confession that gives him pause, that makes his breath catch and his heart beat hard and quick beneath her palm. She squeals when he abruptly rolls them over, pinning her under him, his smile bright enough to light up all of Storybrooke (and possibly the entirety of Maine).

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” he grins, and she can’t help but roll her eyes at his antics, until his expression turns serious again and goes infinitely soft. “Will you say it again?” he wonders.

How could she not with his tone like that, so happy and full of wonder, his eyes reflecting the depths of his feelings for her. She reaches up, both hands on his face, fingers lightly tracing across the sharp angles and lines as if to memorize him just like this. “ _I love you_.”

He nods, and his toothy, dimpled smile is her favorite thing in the whole of the world. He lowers his head until their foreheads press together, nose nudging affectionately against hers. “It’s about bloody time,” he says, lips hovering just a breath from hers.

He kisses the grin from her mouth, swallows the giggle that brushes against his lips, and she sighs -- happy and free and no longer afraid -- when he says, “ _I love you, too, Emma_.”

_Fin_

 


	6. Moments Unforgettable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am weak. A little (smut glittery) interlude in this verse because I have a lot of feelings about The Dust Storm and imagining Killian in flannel and a beanie while singing on stage. Bye.

Emma will never understand how Killian can go from sweet, bashful, nerdy science teacher who likes to scratch behind his ear when he’s anxious to _that_ – complete and utter rockstar oozing with self-confidence and sexiness beyond belief whenever he’s got a guitar in his hands. It shouldn’t surprise her, because she’s seem him play probably a million times over but…there’s just something about seeing him on stage, his fingers strumming on the strings and his smile pressed right up against his microphone when his sings his parts of the vocals, that twists up her insides. Makes her heart thump a little harder in her chest and her stomach clench tight with attraction (and desire).

Maybe it reminds her of that night they’d first met, how he’d wandered over to say hello with his dimpled smirk and too-blue eyes, charming her with engaging conversation and his ridiculously amusing pick-up lines whispered warmly in her ear. She’d flirted back, naturally, and had ended the evening back at his place, shoving him against the door the second they’d made it inside, her warning of _a one time thing_ murmured against his lips before he’d tangled his hands in her hair and slipped his tongue in her mouth.

And had her damn near everywhere in his apartment. All night.

_Christ_ , that was a good night, but that’s all it was supposed to be. It wasn’t supposed to go beyond those blissful hours in the dark of night and the carnal pleasure they had sought in each other’s arms. It certainly wasn’t supposed develop into what it did – dating and falling in love and unspoken words of _forever_ – but fate has funny way of stepping in and turning the world on end. She catches his attention, can tell by the way the smile blooms on his face just before he closes his eyes and starts crooning something about rain falling on Sunday mornings and stealing covers and sharing skin, and she can’t say that she minds.

Her mouth twitches at the corners and she shakes her head, trying desperately to stop her own smile from forming. It’s nearly impossible, though, when she remembers how she’d woken up to him softly singing that same Maroon 5 song to her in the hours before the dawn just hours earlier that morning, when it had simply been him and her and the warmth of the kisses he’d stolen between lyrics.

She’d left him not long after that, begrudgingly leaving the bed and his arms after she’d let him love her – slow and tender and thorough – to go hang out with her girlfriends. It’s a treat to see him now, not just like this, but at the end of a very long, estrogen-filled day. She can’t _wait_ to kiss him, to get her hands on him, particularly because he’s wearing that beanie she loves, not to mention that red flannel button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks good, he looks _damn good_. He’s left the flannel open, worn it over a plain white cotton shirt with a neckline that dips so low it’s practically obscene how much of his chest is exposed to her hungry gaze. She doesn’t mind that either.

Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips and she thinks about how she wants to nibble along his collarbone, or suck a bruise into it. She’s not picky.

His gaze wanders over to her a few more times throughout the number and she’s helpless to her little internal sighs with each meeting of their eyes. The smile on his face is still full of secrets and as heat continues to pool in her belly and spark along her skin, she sincerely hopes she has the opportunity to uncover each and every one.

_Fingers trace your every outline_

_Paint a picture with my hands…_

For now she sits back at her little table and enjoys her drink and lets the tension and anticipation of their reunion simmer between them.

It’s late by the time he finishes his set, later still before all the Rabbit Hole’s patrons finally begin to filter out. She hangs back, giving Killian time to make his rounds and say his goodbyes. A rush of pride fills her every time someone compliments him, whether it be his singing or his playing or the jokes he had to fill the space between. It makes her even more eager for a bit of his time, so that she can tell him she’s proud of him also. So that she can _show_ him. (So that she can kiss him senseless and tell him she missed him too.)

It’s when the crowd dwindles down that the idea comes to her, brow lifting in amusement as she watches Killian round out the last of his conversations. She slides off her stool at her high table and goes off in search of the bar owner to ask for a favor. A bit later, with the last customers out the door and the staff up and gone for the evening, Emma waves goodbye to the bar owner, who shakes his head with a knowing smile when she sends him a wink before he slips out the door. The lock clicks quietly into place and she grins, turning her gaze to Killian where he’s packing up his guitar. The stage lights are on low on him, but when she slowly lowers the house lights until they go out completely, it makes him stand out against the darkness.

She thinks it’s fitting, like a beacon to guide her as she makes her way towards him. He glances up curiously, brows pinched together.

“What’s going on? What’s happened to the lights?” he asks, and then he sees her – all of her – and she has the complete female satisfaction of seeing his jaw go slack.

“Hi,” she says when she’s past the first row of tables, looking up at him with a soft smile.

“Hi,” he replies, voice cracking adorably a bit on the end so he has to clear his throat. “Swan, you look- I mean, you’re- wow. _Wow._ ”

She giggles at his loss for words, scrunching her nose at him and beckoning him over. She’s so glad she went home to change into her little black dress before coming to his gig, and she’s definitely glad she decided to suffer in her black heels for the night despite having been on her feet all day with the girls. She looks killer, if she does say so herself, and judging by Killian’s reaction, he thinks so too.

When he’s within reaching distance, she grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and pushes up onto her tiptoes the same moment she tugs him to bend down for a kiss. She lingers for a moment, fingers smoothing along his jaw before tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, left uncovered by his beanie.

“Thanks,” she murmurs over his lips, nudging at his nose with hers.

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” he tells her.

“I’m glad I did.”

“Me too.”

She pulls a little harder, until he takes the hint and hops down, and she’s on him the second his feet hit the ground, shoving him back so his lands on his butt and winds up seated on the edge of the stage. She wastes no time hiking up the material of her dress and hitching first one leg over him and then the next so she can straddle him.

His hands automatically go to her waist, but his voice is full of warning. “Whoa, hang on a minute. Swan-”

“It’s _amazing_ what you can get away with when you’re the Sheriff,” she interrupts, hands sliding up his chest and winding around his neck as she settles her weight on him so her hips press deliciously into his.

Shock flits across his face and she giggles again when she finally sees it dawn on his face how very alone they are. “Wha- you- _here_?”

She rocks her hips a little bit, just enough to make his fingers press a little harder into her skin. “Mmhmm,” she hums, leaning forward to brush an innocent kiss to his lips. “Right here.”

He might have made some mention of the security cameras, and she might have made some retort about having disabled them, but it’s hard to be sure when she’s too busy kissing him a little longer this time, coaxing him, _tempting_ him with playful little nips of her teeth and the soothing glide of her tongue after. She swallows his curse – and his moan – when her hands slip between them and she begins working frantically at the belt of his jeans.

Her name is on his lips again, this time not an admonishment, but a quiet little plea. She gives him another shove back, gentler this time so he lays sprawled out on his back, watching her with those endlessly blue eyes she loves so much.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” she confesses.

“Have you?” he wonders, swallowing thickly and hissing when her hand dips into his jeans to curl around him. His head thumps back against the stage. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out, smiling wickedly as she strokes him. “Having you here, just like this.”

Her free hand tugs impatiently at his jeans and he lifts his hips before reaching down to help her tug them a little lower.

“Is that a problem?” she wonders.

He shakes his head, unable to keep his eyes off of her. “Nope, not at all. I suppose it comes with the territory of being incredibly irresistible and- _bloody hell, Swan,_ ” he bites off with a groan as she lifts up and sinks down onto him without warning. “You’re not wearing any knickers.”

“Nope,” she confirms, sighing at the deeply satisfying burn and stretch that always happens when he first fills her. She continues to inch down, down, down until he bottoms out. “Is _that_ a problem?”

“At the moment?” he asks, sighing too when she starts to move. “Not one bloody bit.”

She grins down at him, resting a hand over his heart and reaching for one of his to twine their fingers together. “Good.”

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. There are still three more unrelated chapters in this verse that I originally had planned, this one is just a bonus Xx


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